^^ 


^^ 


..^ 


<Snglt0[)  Mm  of  Cctter0 


EDITED  BY  JOHN  MORLEY 


CH^XJCER 


BY 


ADOLPHUS  WILLIAM  WAIID 


:  culjf©!^S-'  * 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

NEW   YOllK    AND  LONDON 


u 


>  o 


ENGLISH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

Edited  by  John  Morley. 


Johnson Leslie  Stephen. 

Gibbon J.  C.  Morison. 

Scott R.  H.  Hutton. 

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Hume T.  H.  Huxley. 

Goldsmith William  Black. 

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Burns J.  C.  Shairp. 

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Thackeray Anthony  Trollope. 

Burke John  Morley. 

Milton Mark  Pattison. 

Hawthorne Henry  James,  Jr. 

Southey E.  Dowden. 

Chaucer A.  W.  Ward- 

Bunyan J.  A.  Froude. 

CowPER Goldwin  Smith. 

Pope Leslie  Stephen. 

Byron John  Nichol. 

Caklyle.  .. 

lamo,  Cloth,  75 


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Sheridan Mrs.  Oliphant. 

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Keats Sidney  Colvin. 

•  John  Nichol. 

cents  per  volume. 


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Published  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  New  York. 

C®°  Any  of  the  above  works  will  be  sent  by  mail,  postage  prepaid,  to  any  pari 
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NOTE. 

The  peculiar  conditions  of  this  essay  must  be  left  to  ex- 
plain themselves.  It  could  not  have  been  written  at  all 
without  the  aid  of  the  Publications  of  the  Chaucer  Socie- 
ty, and  more  especially  of  the  labours  of  the  Society's 
Director,  Mr.  Furnivall.  To  other  recent  writers  on  Chau- 
cer— including  Mr.  Fleay,  from  whom  I  never  differ  but 
with  hesitation — I  have  referred,  in  so  far  as  it  was  in  my 
power  to  do  so.  Perhaps  I  may  take  this  opportunity  of 
expressing  a  wish  that  Pauli's  History  of  England,  a  work 
beyond  the  compliment  of  an  acknowledgment,  were  acces- 
sible to  every  English  reader. 

A.  W.  W. 


UniVi  of    cuuoinia 
Withdrawn 


"7^ 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

PAGK 

Chaucer's  Times 1 


CHAPTER  II. 
Chaucer's  Life  and  Works 47 

CHAPTER  III. 
Characteristics  of  Chaucer  and  of  his  Poetry       .  143 

CHAPTER  IV. 
Epilogue         .        .        , 189 

Glossary 199 


CHAUCER 


CHAPTER  I. 


Chaucer's  times. 


The  biography  of  GeofErey  Chaucer  is  no  longer  a  mixture 
of  unsifted  facts,  and  of  more  or  less  hazardous  conject- 
ures. Many  and  wide  as  are  the  gaps  in  our  knowledge 
concerning  the  course  of  his  outer  life,  and  doubtful  as 
many  important  passages  of  it  remain — in  vexatious  con- 
trast with  the  certainty  of  other  relatively  insignificant 
data — we  have  at  least  become  aware  of  the  foundations 
on  which  alone  a  trustworthy  account  of  it  can  be  built. 
These  foundations  consist  partly  of  a  meagre  though  grad- 
ually increasing  array  of  external  evidence,  chiefly  to  be 
found  in  public  documents — in  the  Royal  Wardrobe  Book, 
the  Issue  Rolls  of  the  Exchequer,  the  Customs  Rolls,  and 
such-like  records — partly  of  the  conclusions  which  may  be 
drawn  with  confidence  from  the  internal  evidence  of  the 
poet's  own  indisputably  genuine  works,  together  with  a 
few  references  to  him  in  the  writings  of  his  contemporaries 
or  immediate  successors.  Which  of  his  works  are  to  be 
accepted  as  genuine,  necessarily  forms  the  subject  of  an 
antecedent  enquiry,  such  as  cannot  with  any  degree  of 
1* 


2  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

safety  be  conducted  except  on  principles  far  from  infallible 
with  regard  to  all  the  instances  to  which  they  have  been 
applied,  but  now  accepted  by  the  large  majority  of  com- 
petent scholars.  Thus,  by  a  process  which  is  in  truth  dul- 
ness  and  dryness  itself,  except  to  patient  endeavour  stimu- 
lated by  the  enthusiasm  of  special  literary  research,  a  lim- 
ited number  of  results  has  been  safely  established,  and 
others  have,  at  all  events,  been  placed  beyond  reasonable 
doubt.  Around  a  third  series  of  conclusions  or  conject- 
ures the  tempest  of  controversy  still  rages ;  and  even  now 
it  needs  a  wary  step  to  pass  without  fruitless  deviations 
through  a  maze  of  assumptions  consecrated  by  their  lon- 
gevity, or  commended  to  sympathy  by  the  fervour  of  per- 
sonal conviction. 

A  single  instance  must  suffice  to  indicate  both  the  dif- 
ficulty and  the  significance  of  many  of  those  questions  of 
Chaucerian  biography  which,  whether  interesting  or  not  in 
themselves,  have  to  be  determined  before  Chaucer's  life  can 
be  written.  They  are  not,  "  all  and  some,"  mere  antiqua- 
rians' puzzles,  of  interest  only  to  those  who  have  leisure  and 
inclination  for  microscopic  enquiries.  So  with  the  point 
immediately  in  view.  It  has  been  said  with  much  force* 
that  Tyrwhitt,  whose  services  to  the  study  of  Chaucer  re- 
main uneclipsed  by  those  of  any  other  scholar,  would  have 
composed  a  quite  different  biography  of  the  poet,  had  he 
not  been  confounded  by  the  formerly  (and  here  and  there 
still)  accepted  date  of  Chaucer's  birth,  the  year  1328. 
For  the  correctness  of  this  date  Tyrwhitt  "  supposed  "  the 
poet's  tombstone  in  Westminster  Abbey  to  be  the  voucher ; 
but  the  slab  placed  on  a  pillar  near  his  grave  (it  is  said  at 
the  desire  of  Caxton)  appears  to  have  merely  borne  a  Latin 
inscription  without  any  dates ;  and  the  marble  monument 
erected  in  its  stead,  "  in  the  name  of  the  Muses,"  by  Nico- 


I.]  CHAUCER'S  TIMES.  3 

las  Brigham  in  1556,  while  giving  October  25tli,  1400,  as 
the  day  of  Chaucer's  death,  makes  no  mention  either  of 
the  date  of  his  birth  or  of  the  number  of  years  to  which 
he  attained,  and,  indeed,  promises  no  more  information 
than  it  gives.  That  Chaucer's  contemporary,  the  poet 
Gower,  should  have  referred  to  him  in  the  year  1392  as 
"  now  in  his  days  old,"  is  at  best  a  very  vague  sort  of  tes- 
timony, more  especially  as  it  is  by  mere  conjecture  that 
the  year  of  Gower's  own  birth  is  placed  as  far  back  as 
1320.  Still  less  weight  can  be  attached  to  the  circum- 
stance that  another  poet,  Occleve,  who  clearly  regarded 
himself  as  the  disciple  of  one  by  many  years  his  senior,  in 
accordance  with  the  common  phraseology  of  his  (and,  in- 
deed, of  other)  times,  spoke  of  the  older  writer  as  his  "  fa- 
ther "  and  "  father  reverent."  In  a  coloured  portrait  care- 
fully painted  from  memory  by  Occleve  on  the  margin  of 
a  manuscript,  Chaucer  is  represented  with  grey  hair  and 
beard;  but  this  could  not  of  itself  be  taken  to  contra- 
dict the  supposition  that  he  died  about  the  age  of  sixty. 
And  Leland's  assertion  that  Chaucer  attained  to  old  age 
self-evidently  rests  on  tradition  only  ;  for  Leland  was  born 
more  than  a  century  after  Chaucer  died.  Nothing  occur- 
ring in  any  of  Chaucer's  own  works  of  undisputed  genuine- 
ness throws  any  real  light  on  the  subject.  His  poem,  the 
House  of  Fame,  has  been  variously  dated ;  but  at  any  pe- 
riod of  his  manhood  he  might  have  said,  as  he  says  there, 
that  he  was  "  too  old  "  to  learn  astronomy,  and  preferred 
to  take  his  science  on  faith.  In  the  curious  lines  called 
V Envoy  de  Chaucer  a  Scogan,  the  poet,  while  blaming  his 
friend  for  his  want  of  perseverance  in  a  love-suit,  classes 
himself  among  "  them  that  be  hoar  and  round  of  shape," 
and  speaks  of  himself  and  his  Muse  as  out  of  date  and 
rust\ .     But  there  seems  no  sufficient  reason  for  removing 


4  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

the  date  of  the  composition  of  these  lines  to  an  earlier 
year  than  1393;  and  poets  as  well  as  other  men  since 
Chaucer  have  spoken  of  themselves  as  old  and  obsolete  at 
fifty.  A  similar  remark  might  be  made  concerning  the 
reference  to  the  poet's  old  age,"  which  dulleth  him  in  his 
spirit,"  in  the  Complaint  of  Venus,  generally  ascribed  to 
the  last  decennium  of  Chaucer's  life.  If  we  reject  the  evi- 
dence of  a  further  passage,  in  the  Cuckoo  and  the  Night- 
ingale,  a  poem  of  disputed  genuineness,  we  accordingly 
arrive  at  the  conclusion  that  there  is  no  reason  for  demur- 
ring to  the  only  direct  external  evidence  in  existence  as  to 
the  date  of  Chaucer's  birth.  At  a  famous  trial  of  a  cause 
of  chivalry  held  at  Westminster  in  1386,  Chaucer,  who  had 
gone  through  part  of  a  campaign  with  one  of  the  litigants, 
appeared  as  a  witness;  and  on  this  occasion  his  age  was, 
doubtless  on  his  own  deposition,  recorded  as  that  of  a 
man  "  of  forty  years  and  upwards,"  who  had  borne  arms 
for  twenty-seven  years.  A  careful  enquiry  into  the  ac- 
curacy of  the  record  as  to  the  ages  of  the  numerous  other 
witnesses  at  the  same  trial  has  established  it  in  an  over- 
whelming majority  of  instances;  and  it  is  absurd  gratui- 
tously to  charge  Chaucer  with  having  understated  his  age 
from  motives  of  vanity*  The  conclusion,  therefore,  seems 
to  remain  unshaken,  that  he  was  born  about  the  year  1340, 
or  some  time  between  that  year  and  1345. 

Now,  we  possess  a  charming  poem  by  Chaucer  called 
the  Assembly  of  Fowls,  elaborately  courtly  in  its  concep- 
tion, and  in  its  execution  giving  proofs  of  Italian  reading 
on  the  part  of  its  author,  as  well  as  of  a  ripe  humour  such 
as  is  rarely  an  accompaniment  of  extreme  youth.  This 
poem  has  been  thought  by  earlier  commentators  to  allego- 
rise an  event  known  to  have  happened  in  1358;  by  later 
critics,  another  which  occurred  in  1364.     Clearly,  the  as- 


I.]  CHAUCER'S  TIMES.  fL: 

sumption  t"hat  the  period  from  1340  to  1345  includes  the 
date  of  Chaucer's  birth  suffices  of  itself  to  stamp  the  one 
of  these  conjectures  as  untenable,  and  the  other  as  improb- 
able, and  (when  the  style  of  the  poem  and  treatment  of 
its  subject  are  taken  into  account)  adds  weight  to  the  other 
reasons  in  favour  of  the  date  1381  for  the  poem  in  ques- 
tion. Thus,  backwards  and  forwards,  the  disputed  points 
in  Chaucer's  biography  and  the  question  of  his  works  are 
affected  by  one  another. 


Chaucer's  life,  then,  spans  rather  more  than  the  latter 
half  of  the  fourteenth  century,  the  last  year  of  which  was 
indisputably  the  year  of  his  death.  In  other  words,  it 
covers  rather  more  than  the  interval  between  the  most 
glorious  epoch  of  Edward  III.'s  reign  —  for  Crecy  was 
fought  in  1346 — and  the  downfall,  in  1399,  of  his  unfort- 
unate successor  Richard  II. 

The  England  of  this  period  was  but  a  little  land,  if 
numbers  be  the  test  of  greatness;  but  in  Edward  III.'s 
time,  as  in  that  of  Henry  V.,  who  inherited  so  much  of 
Edward's  policy  and  revived  so  much  of  his  glory,  there 
stirred  in  this  little  body  a  mighty  heart.  It  is  only  of  a 
small  population  that  the  author  of  the  Vision  concerning 
Piers  Plowman  could  have  gathered  the  representatives 
into  a  single  field,  or  that  Chaucer  himself  could  have 
composed  a  family  picture  fairly  comprehending,  though 
not  altogether  exhausting,  the  chief  national  character- 
types.  In  the  year  of  King  Richard  II.'s  accession  (1377), 
according  to  a  trustworthy  calculation  based  upon  the  re- 
sult of  that  year's  poll-tax,  the  total  number  of  the  inhab- 
itants of  England  seems  to  have  been  two  millions  and  a 


6  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

half.  A  quarter  of  a  century  earlier — in  the  days  of  Chau- 
cer's boyhood — their  numbers  had  been  perhaps  twice  as 
large.  For  not  less  than  four  great  pestilences  (in  1348-9, 
1361-2, 1369,  and  13*75-6)  had  swept  over  the  land,  and  at 
least  one-half  of  its  population,  including  two-thirds  of  the 
inhabitants  of  the  capital,  had  been  carried  off  by  the  rav- 
ages of  the  obstinate  epidemic — "the  foul  death  of  Eng- 
land," as  it  was  called  in  a  formula  of  execration  in  use 
among  the  people.  In  this  year — 1377 — London,  where 
Chaucer  was  doubtless  born  as  well  as  bred,  where  the 
greater  part  of  his  life  was  spent,  and  where  the  memory 
of  his  name  is  one  of  those  associations  which  seem  fa- 
miliarly to  haunt  the  banks  of  the  historic  river  from 
Thames  Street  to  Westminster,  apparently  numbered  not 
more  than  35,000  souls.  But  if,  from  the  nature  of  the 
case,  no  place  was  more  exposed  than  London  to  the  in- 
roads of  the  Black  Death,  neither  was  any  other  so  likely 
elastically  to  recover  from  them.  For  the  reign  of  Ed- 
ward III.  had  witnessed  a  momentous  advance  in  the  pros- 
perity of  the  capital — an  advance  reflecting  itself  in  the 
outward  changes  introduced  during  the  same  period  into 
the  architecture  of  the  city.  Its  wealth  had  grown  larger 
as  its  houses  had  grown  higher;  and  mediaeval  London, 
such  as  we  are  apt  to  picture  it  to  ourselves,  seems  to  have 
derived  those  leading  features  which  it  so  long  retained,  from 
the  days  when  Chaucer,  with  downcast  but  very  observant 
eyes,  passed  along  its  streets  between  Billingsgate  and  Aid- 
gate.  Still,  here  as  elsewhere  in  England,  the  remembrance 
of  the  most  awful  physical  visitations  which  have  ever  be- 
fallen the  country  must  have  long  lingered ;  and,  after  all 
has  been  said,  it  is  wonderful  that  the  traces  of  them 
should  be  so  exceedingly  scanty  in  Chaucer's  pages.  Twice 
only  in  his  poems  does  he  refer  to  the  Plague :  once  in 


I.]  CHAUCER'S  TIMES.  1 

an  alleo'orical  fiction  which  is  of  Italian  if  not  of  French 
origin,  and  where,  therefore,  no  special  reference  to  the 
ravages  of  the  disease  in  England  may  be  intended  when 
Death  is  said  to  have  "  a  thousand  slain  this  pestilence  " — 

"...  He  hath  slain  this  year 
Hence  over  a  mile,  within  a  great  village 
Both  men  and  women,  child  and  hind  and  page." 

The  other  allusion  is  a  more  than  half  humorous  one.  It 
occurs  in  the  description  of  the  Doctor  of  Physic,  the 
grave  graduate  in  purple  surcoat  and  blue  white -furred 
hood;  nor,  by  the  way,  may  this  portrait  itself  be  alto- 
gether without  its  use  as  throwing  some  light  on  the 
helplessness  of  fourteenth  -  century  medical  science.  For 
though  in  all  the  world  there  was  none  like  this  doctor  to 
sjKak  of  physic  and  of  surgery;  though  he  was  a  very  per- 
fect practitioner,  and  never  at  a  loss  for  telling  the  cause 
of  any  malady  and  for  supplying  the  patient  with  the  ap- 
propriate drug,  sent  in  by  the  doctor's  old  and  faithful 
friends  the  apothecaries ;  though  he  was  well  versed  in  all 
the  authorities  from  ^sculapius  to  the  writer  of  the  Rosa 
Anglica  (who  cures  inflammation  homocopathically  by  the 
use  of  red  draperies) ;  though,  like  a  truly  wise  physician, 
he  began  at  home  by  caring  anxiously  for  his  own  diges- 
tion and  for  his  peace  of  mind  ("his  study  was  but  little 
in  the  Bible") — yet  the  basis  of  his  scientific  knowledge 
was  "  astronomy,"  i.  e.,  astrology,  "the  better  part  of  medi- 
cine," as  Roger  Bacon  calls  it ;  together  with  that  "  natu- 
ral magic "  by  which,  as  Chaucer  elsewhere  tells  us,  the 
famous  among  the  learned  have  known  how  to  make  men 
whole  or  sick.  And  there  was  one  specific  which,  from 
A  double  point  of  view,  Chaucer's  Doctor  of  Physic  es- 
teemed very  highly,  and  was  loth  to  part  with  on  frivo- 


"\ 


8  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

lous  pretexts.     He  was  but  easy  {i.  c,  slack)  of  "  dis- 

pence  " : — 

"  He  kepte  that  he  won  in  pestilence. 

For  gold  in  physic  is  a  cordial ; 

Therefore  he  lov^d  gold  in  special." 

Meanwhile  the  ruling  classes  seem  to  have  been  left  un- 
touched in  heart  by  these  successive  ill-met  and  ill-guard- 
ed trials,  which  had  first  smitten  the  lower  orders  chiefly, 
then  the  higher  with  the  lower  (if  the  Plague  of  1349  had 
swept  o£E  an  archbishop,  that  of  1361  struck  down,  among 
others,  Henry,  Duke  of  Lancaster,  the  father  of  Chaucer's 
Duchess  Blanche).     Calamities  such  as  these  would  assur- 
edly have  been  treated  as  warnings  sent  from  on  high, 
both  in  earlier  times,  when  a  Church  better  braced  for  the 
due  performance  of  its  never-ending  task,  eagerly  inter- 
preted to  awful  ears  the  signs  of  the  wrath  of  God,  and 
by  a  later  generation,  leavened  in  spirit  by  the  self -search- 
ing morality  of  Puritanism.     But  from  the  sorely -tried 
third  quarter  of  the  fourteenth  century  the  solitary  voice 
of  Langland  cries,  as  the  voice  of  Conscience  preaching 
with  her  cross,  that  "  these  pestilences  "  are  the  penalty  of 
sin  and  of  naught  else.     It  is  assuredly  presumptuous  for 
one  generation,  without  the  fullest  proof,  to  accuse  another 
of  thoughtlessness  or  heartlessness ;  and  though  the  classes 
for  which  Chaucer  mainly  wrote,  and  with  which  he  mainly 
felt,  were  in  all  probability  as  little  inclined  to  improve  the 
occasions  of  the  Black  Death  as  the  middle  classes  of  the 
present  day  would  be  to  fall  on  their  knees  after  a  season 
of  commercial  ruin,  yet  signs  are  not  wanting  that  in  the 
later  years  of  the  fourteenth  century  words  of  admonition 
came  to  be  not  unfrequently  spoken.     The  portents  of  the 
eventful   year  1382   called  forth  moralisings  in  English 
verse,  and  the  pestilence  of  1391  a  rhymed  lamentation  in 


I.]  CHAUCER'S  TIMES.  9 

Latin ;  and  at  different  dates  in  King  Richard's  reign,  the 
poet  Gower,  Chaucer's  contemporary  and  friend,  inveighed 
both  in  Latin  and  in  English,  from  his  conservative  point 
of  view,  against  the  corruption  and  sinfulness  of  society  at 
large.  But  by  this  time  the  great  peasant  insurrection 
had  added  its  warning,  to  which  it  was  impossible  to  re- 
main deaf. 

A  self-confident  nation,  however,  is  slow  to  betake  itself 
to  sackcloth  and  ashes.  On  the  whole,  it  is  clear  that 
though  the  last  years  of  Edward  III.  were  a  season  of  fail- 
ure and  disappointment — though  from  the  period  of  the 
First  Pestilence  onwards  the  signs  increase  of  the  King's 
unpopularity  and  of  the  people's  discontent — yet  the  over- 
burdened and  enfeebled  nation  was  brought  almost  as  slow- 
ly as  the  King  himself  to  renounce  the  proud  position  of  a 
conquering  power.  In  1363  he  had  celebrated  the  com- 
pletion of  his  fiftieth  year ;  and  three  suppliant  kings  had 
at  that  time  been  gathered  as  satellites  round  the  sun  of 
his  success.  By  1371  he  had  lost  all  his  allies,  and  nearly 
all  the  conquests  gained  by  himself  and  the  valiant  Prince 
of  Wales ;  and  during  the  years  remaining  to  him  his  sub- 
jects hated  his  rule  and  angrily  assailed  his  favourites. 
From  being  a  conquering  power  the  English  monarchy 
was  fast  sinking  into  an  island  which  found  it  diflScult  to 
defend  its  own  shores.  There  were  times  towards  the 
close  of  Edward's,  and  early  in  his  successor's  reign,  when 
matters  would  have  gone  hard  with  English  traders,  natu- 
rally desirous  of  having  their  money's  worth  for  their  sub- 
sidy of  tonnage  and  poundage,  and  anxious,  like  their  type 
the  Merchant  in  Chaucer,  that  "  the  sea  were  kept  for  any- 
thing "  between  Middleburgh  and  Harwich,  had  not  some 
of  them,  such  as  the  Londoner,  John  Philpot,  occasionally 

armed  and  manned  a  squadron  of  ships  on  their  own  ac 
B  - 


10  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

count,  in  defiance  of  red  tape  and  its  censures.  But  in 
the  days  when  Chaucer  and  the  generation  with  which  he 
grew  up  were  young,  the  ardour  of  foreign  conquest  had 
not  yet  died  out  in  the  land,  and  clergy  and  laity  cheerful- 
ly co-operated  in  bearing  the  burdens  which  military  glory 
has  at  all  times  brought  with  it  for  a  civilised  people.  Ths 
high  spirit  of  the  English  nation,  at  a  time  when  the  de- 
cline in  its  fortunes  was  already  near  at  hand  (1366),  is 
evident  from  the  answer  given  to  the  application  from 
Rome  for  the  arrears  of  thirty-three  years  of  the  tribute 
promised  by  King  John,  or  rather  from  what  must  unmis- 
takably have  been  the  drift  of  that  answer.  Its  terms  are 
unknown,  but  the  demand  was  never  afterwards  repeated. 

The  power  of  England,  in  the  period  of  an  ascendency 
to  which  she  so  tenaciously  sought  to  cling,  had  not  been 
based  only  upon  the  valour  of  her  arms.  Our  country 
was  already  a  rich  one  in  comparison  with  most  others  in 
Europe.  Other  purposes  besides  that  of  providing  good 
cheer  for  a  robust  generation  were  served  by  the  wealth  of 
her  great  landed  proprietors,  and  of  the  "worthy  vava- 
sours "  (smaller  land-owners)  who,  like  Chaucer's  Franklin 
— a  very  Saint  Julian  or  pattern  of  hospitality — knew  not 
what  it  was  to  be  "  without  baked  meat  in  the  house," 

where  their 

f  *'  Tables  dormant  in  the  hall  alway 

'     Stood  ready  covered  all  the  louge  day."      / 

From  this  source,  and  from  the  well-filled  coffers  of  the 
traders,  came  the  laity's  share  of  the  expenses  of  those  for- 
eign wars  which  did  so  much  to  consolidate  national  feel- 
ing in  England.  The  foreign  companies  of  merchants 
long  contrived  to  retain  the  chief  share  of  the  banking 
business  and  export  trade  assigned  to  them  by  the  short- 
sighted commercial  policy  of  Edward  III.,  and  the  weaving 


I.]  CHAUCER'S  TIMES.  11 

and  fishing  industries  of  Hanseatic  and  Flemish  immi- 
grants had  established  an  almost  unbearable  competition 
in  our  own  ports  and  towns.  But  the  active  import  trade, 
which  already  connected  England  with  both  nearer  and 
remoter  parts  of  Christendom,  must  have  been  largely  in 
native  hands;  and  English  chivalry,  diplomacy,  and  lit- 
erature followed  in  the  lines  of  the  trade-routes  to  the 
Baltic  and  the  Mediterranean.  Our  mariners,  like  their 
type  the  Shv^ian  in  Chaucer  (an  anticipation  of  the 
"  Venturer  "  of  later  days,  with  the  pirate  as  yet,  perhaps, 
more  strongly  marked  in  him  than  the  patriot), 

"...  Knew  well  all  the  havens,  as  they  were 
From  Gothland,  to  the  Cape  of  Finisterre, 
And  every  creek  in  Brittany  and  Spain." 

Doubtless,  as  may  be  noticed  in  passing,  much  of  the  ten- 
dency on  the  part  of  our  shipmen  in  this  period  to  self- 
help,  in  offence  as  well  as  in  defence,  was  due  to  the  fact 
that  the  mercantile  navy  was  frequently  employed  in  ex- 
peditions of  war,  vessels  and  men  being  at  times  seized  or 
impressed  for  the  purpose  by  order  of  the  Crown.  On 
one  of  these  occasions  the  port  of  Dartmouth,  whence 
Chaucer  at  a  venture  ("for  aught  I  wot")  makes  his 
Shipj7ian  hail,  is  found  contributing  a  larger  total  of  ships 
and  men  than  any  other  port  in  England.  For  the  rest, 
Flanders  was  certainly  still  far  ahead  of  her  future  rival 
in  wealth  and  in  mercantile  and  industrial  activity ;  as  a 
manufacturing  country  she  had  no  equal,  and  in  trade  the 
rival  she  chiefly  feared  was  still  the  German  Ilansa. 
Chaucer's  Merchant  characteristically  wears  a  "  Flandrish 
beaver  hat ;''  and  it  is  no  accident  that  the  scene  of  the 
Pardoner's  Talc,  w^hich  begins  with  a  description  of  "  su- 
perfluity abominable,"  is  laid  in  Flanders.     In  England, 


12  CHAUCER.  '  [chap. 

indeed,  the  towns  never  came  to  domineer  as  they  did  in 
the  Netherlands.  Yet,  since  no  trading  country  will  long 
submit  to  be  ruled  by  the  landed  interest  only,  so  in  pro- 
portion as  the  English  towns,  and  London  especially,  grew 
richer,  their  voices  were  listened  to  in  the  settlement  of  the 
affairs  of  the  nation.  It  might  be  very  well  for  Chaucer 
to  close  the  description  of  his  Merchant  with  what  looks 
very  much  like  a  fashionable  writer's  half  sneer : — 

"  Forsooth,  he  was  a  worthy  man  withal ; 
But,  truly,  I  wot  not  how  men  him  call." 

Yet  not  only  was  high  political  and  social  rank  reached 
by  individual  "  merchant  princes,"  such  as  the  wealthy 
William  de  la  Pole,  a  descendant  of  whom  is  said  (though 
on  unsatisfactory  evidence)  to  have  been  Chaucer's  grand- 
daughter, but  the  government  of  the  country  came  to  be 
very  perceptibly  influenced  by  the  class  from  which  they 
sprang.  On  the  accession  of  Richard  II.,  two  London  cit- 
izens were  appointed  controllers  of  the  war  -  subsidies 
granted  to  the  Crown;  and  in  the  Parliament  of  1382  a 
committee  of  fourteen  merchants  refused  to  entertain  the 
question  of  a  merchants'  loan  to  the  King.  The  impor- 
tance and  self-consciousness  of  the  smaller  tradesmen  and 
handicraftsmen  increased  with  that  of  the  great  merchants. 
When,  in  1393,  King  Richard  II.  marked  the  termination 
of  his  quarrel  with  the  City  of  London  by  a  stately  pro- 
cession through  "  new  Troy,"  he  was  welcomed,  according 
to  the  Friar  who  has  commemorated  the  event  in  Latin 
verse,  by  the  trades  in  an  array  resembling  an  angelic 
host ;  and  among  the  crafts  enumerated  we  recognise  sev- 
eral of  those  represented  in  Chaucer's  company  of  pilgrims 
— by  the  Carpenter,  the  Webbe  (Weaver),  and  the  Dyer^ 
all  clothed 


I.]  CHAUCER'S  TIMES.  13 

"...  In  one  livery 
Of  a  solemn  and  great  fraternity." 

The  middle  class,  in  short,  was  learning  to  hold  up  its 
head,  collectively  and  individually.  The  historical  original 
of  Chaucer's  Host — the  actual  Master  Harry  Bailly,  vintner 
and  landlord  of  the  Tabard  Inn  in  Southwark,  was  like- 
wise a  member  of  Parliament,  and  very  probably  felt  as 
sure  of  himself  in  real  life  as  the  mimic  personage  bearing 
his  name  does  in  its  fictitious  reproduction.  And  he  and 
his  fellows,  the  "  poor  and  simple  Commons  "  —  for  so 
humble  was  the  style  they  were  wont  to  assume  in  their 
addresses  to  the  sovereign  —  began  to  look  upon  them- 
selves, and  to  be  looked  upon,  as  a  power  in  the  State. 
The  London  traders  and  handicraftsmen  knew  what  it  was 
to  be  well-to-do  citizens,  and  if  they  had  failed  to  under- 
stand it,  home  monition  would  have  helped  to  make  it 
clear  to  them  : — 

"  Well  seemed  each  of  them  a  fair  burgess, 
For  sitting  in  a  guildhall  on  a  dais. 
And  each  one  for  the  wisdom  that  he  can 
Was  shapely  for  to  be  an  alderman. 
They  had  enough  of  chattels  and  of  rent, 
And  very  gladly  would  their  wives  assent ; 
And,  truly,  else  they  had  been  much  to  blame. 
It  is  full  fair  to  be  yclept  maddme^ 
And  fair  to  go  to  vigils  all  before, 
And  have  a  mantle  royally  y-bore." 

The  English  State  had  ceased  to  be  the  feudal  mon- 
archy— the  ramification  of  contributory  courts  and  camps 
— of  the  crude  days  of  William  the  Conqueror  and  his 
successors.  The  Norman  lords  and  their  English  depend- 
ents no  longer  formed  two  separate  elements  in  the  body- 
politic.      In  the  great  French  wars  of  Edward  III.,  the 


14  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

English  armies  had  no  longer  mainly  consisted  of  the  ba- 
ronial levies.  The  nobles  had  indeed,  as  of  old,  ridden  into 
battle  at  the  head  of  their  vassals  and  retainers;  but  the 
body  of  the  force  had  been  made  up  of  Englishmen  serv- 
ing for  pay,  and  armed  with  their  national  implement,  the 
bow — such  as  Chaucer's  Yeoman  carried  with  him  on  the 
ride  to  Canterbury  : — 

"  A  sheaf  of  peacock  arrows  bright  and  keen 
Under  his  belt  he  bare  full  thriftily. 
Well  could  he  dress  his  tackle  yeomanly : 
His  arrows  drooped  not  with  feathers  low, 
And  in  his  hand  he  bare  a  mighty  bow." 

The  use  of  the  bow  was  specially  favoured  by  both  Ed- 
ward III.  and  his  successor ;  and  when,  early  in  the  next 
century,  the  chivalrous  Scottish  king,  James  I.  (of  whom 
mention  will  be  made  among  Chaucer's  poetic  disciples) 
returned  from  his  long  English  captivity  to  his  native 
land,  he  had  no  more  eager  care  than  that  his  subjects 
should  learn  to  emulate  the  English  in  the  handling  of 
their  favourite  weapon.  Chaucer  seems  to  be  unable  to 
picture  an  army  without  it,  and  we  find  him  relating  how, 
from  ancient  Troy, 

"  Hector  and  many  a  worthy  wight  out  went 
With  spear  in  hand,  and  with  their  big  bows  bent." 

No  wonder  that  when  the  battles  were  fought  by  the  peo- 
ple itself,  and  when  the  cost  of  the  wars  was  to  so  large 
an  extent  defrayed  by  its  self-imposed  contributions,  the 
Scottish  and  French  campaigns  should  have  called  forth 
that  national  enthusiasm  which  found  an  echo  in  the  songs 
of  Lawrence  Minot,  as  hearty  war-poetry  as  has  been  com- 
posed in  any  age  of  our  literature.  They  were  put  forth 
in  1352,  and  considering  the  unusual  popularity  they  are 


1.]  CHAUCER'S  TIMES.  16 

said  to  have  enjoyed,  it  is  not  impossible  tliat  they  may 
have  reached  Chaucer's  ears  in  his  boyhood. 

Before  the  final  collapse  of  the  great  King's  fortunes, 
and  his  death  in  a  dishonoured  old  age,  the  ambition  of 
his  heir,  the  proudest  hope  of  both  dynasty  and  nation, 
had  overleapt  itself,  and  the  Black  Prince  had  preceded 
his  father  to  the  tomb.  The  good  ship  England  (so  sang 
a  contemporary  poet)  was  left  without  rudder  or  helm ; 
and  in  a  kingdom  full  of  faction  and  discontent,  the  future 
of  the  Plantagenet  throne  depended  on  a  child.  While 
the  young  king's  ambitious  uncle,  John  of  Gaunt,  Duke 
of  Lancaster  (Chaucer's  patron),  was  in  nominal  retirement, 
and  his  academical  ally,  Wyclif,  was  gaining  popularity  as 
the  mouthpiece  of  the  resistance  to  the  papal  demands, 
there  were  fermenting  beneath  the  surface  elements  of 
popular  agitation,  which  had  been  but  little  taken  into 
dccount  by  the  political  factions  of  Edward  the  Third's 
reign,  and  by  that  part  of  its  society  with  which  Chaucer 
was  more  especially  connected.  But  the  multitude,  whose 
turn,  in  truth,  comes  but  rarely  in  the  history  of  a  nation, 
must  every  now  and  then  make  itself  heard,  although  po- 
ets may  seem  all  but  blind  and  deaf  to  the  tempest  as  it 
rises,  and  bursts,  and  passes  away.  Many  causes  had  con- 
curred to  excite  the  insurrection  which  temporarily  de- 
stroyed the  influence  of  John  of  Gaunt,  and  which  for 
long  cast  a  deep  shade  upon  the  effects  of  the  teaching  of 
Wyclif.  The  acquisition  of  a  measure  of  rights  and  pow- 
er by  the  middle  classes  had  caused  a  general  swaying 
upwards;  and  throughout  the  peoples  of  Europe  floated 
those  dreams  and  speculations  concerning  the  equality  and 
fraternity  of  all  men,  which  needed  but  a  stimulus  and  an 
opportunity  to  assume  the  practical  shape  of  a  revolution,  w 
The  melancholy  thought  which  pervades  Langland's  Vision 


16  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

is  still  that  of  the  helplessness  of  the  poor ;  and  the  rem- 
edy to  which  he  looks  against  the  corruption  of  the  gov- 
erning classes  is  the  advent  of  a  superhuman  king,  whom 
lie  identifies  with  the  ploughman  himself,  the  representa- 
tive of  suffering  humility.      But  about  the  same  time  as 
that  of  the  composition  of  this  poem — or  not  long  after- 
wards— Wyclif  had  sent  forth  among  the  people  his  "  sim- 
ple priests,"  who  illustrated  hy  contrast  the  conflict  which 
his  teaching  exposed  between  the  existing  practice  of  the 
Church  and  the   original  documents  of  her  faith.      The 
connexion  between  Wyclif's  teaching  and  the  peasants'  in- 
surrection under  Richard  II.  is  as  undeniable  as  that  be- 
tween Luther's  doctrines  and  the  great  social  uprising  in 
Germany  a  century  and  a  half  afterwards.     When,  upon 
the  declaration  of  the  Papal  Schism,  Wyclif  abandoned  all 
hope  of  a  reform  of  the  Church  from  within,  and,  defying 
the  injunctions  of  foe  and  friend  alike,  entered  upon  a 
course  of  theological  opposition,  the  popular  influence  of 
his  followers  must  have  tended  to  spread  a  theory  admit- 
ting of  very  easy  application  ad  hominem  —  the  theory, 
rnamely,  that  the  tenure  of  all  oflBces,  whether  spiritual  or 
:  temporal,  is  justified  only  by  the  personal  fitness  of  their 
j  occupants.     With  such  levelling  doctrine,  the  Socialism  of 
popular  preachers  like  John  Balle  might  seem  to  coincide 
with  suflacient  closeness ;  and  since  worthiness  was  not  to 
be  found  in  the  holders  of  either  spiritual  or  temporal  au- 
thority, of  either  ecclesiastical  or  lay  wealth,  the  time  had 
palpably  come  for  the  poor  man  to  enjoy  his  own  again. 
Then,  the  advent  of  a  weak  government,  over  which  a 
powerful  kinsman  of  the  King  and  unconcealed  adversary 
of  the  Church  was  really  seeking  to  recover  the  control, 
and  the  imposition  of  a  tax  coming  home  to  all  men  ex- 
cept actual  beggars,  and  filling  serfdom's  cup  of  bitterness 


I.]  CHAUCER'S  TIMES.  17 

to  overflowing,  supplied  the  opportunity,  and  the  insur- 
rection broke  out.  Its  violence  fell  short  of  that  of  the 
French  Jacquerie  a  quarter  of  a  century  earlier ;  but  no 
doubt  could  exist  as  to  its  critical  importance.  As  it 
happened,  the  revolt  turned  with  special  fury  against  the 
possessions  of  the  Duke  of  Lancaster,  whose  sympathies 
with  the  cause  of  ecclesiastical  reform  it  definitively  ex- 
tinguished. 

After  the  suppression  of  this  appalling  movement  by  a 
party  of  Order,  comprehending  in  it  all  who  had  anything 
to  lose,  a  period  of  reaction  ensued.  In  the  reign  of  Rich- 
ard IL,  whichever  faction  might  be  in  the  ascendant,  and 
whatever  direction  the  King's  own  sympathies  may  have 
originally  taken,  the  last  state  of  the  peasantry  was  with- 
out doubt  worse  than  the  first.  Wycliffism  as  an  influ- 
ence rapidly  declined  with  the  death  of  Wyclif  himself,  as 
it  hardly  could  but  decline,  considering  the  absence  from 
his  teaching  of  any  tangible  system  of  Church  government ; 
and  Lollardry  came  to  be  the  popular  name,  or  nickname, 
for  any  and  every  form  of  dissent  from  the  existing  sys- 
tem. Finally,  Henry  of  Lancaster,  John  of  Gaunt's  son, 
mounted  the  throne  as  a  sort  of  saviour  of  society — a  fa- 
vourite character  for  usurpers  to  pose  in  before  the  ap- 
plauding assemblage  of  those  who  claim  "  a  stake  in  the 
country."  Chaucer's  contemporary,  Gower,  whose  wisdom 
was  of  the  kind  which  goes  with  the  times,  who  was  in 
turn  a  flatterer  of  Richard  and  (by  the  simple  expedient 
of  a  revised  second  edition  of  his  magnum  opus)  a  flatter- 
er of  Henry,  offers  better  testimony  than  Chaucer  to  the 
conservatism  of  the  upper  classes  of  his  age,  and  to  the 
single-minded  anxiety  for  the  good  times  when 

"  Justice  of  law  is  held  ; 
The  privilege  of  royalty 
2 


18  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

Is  safe,  and  all  the  barony. 
Worshipped  is  in  its  estate. 
The  people  stands  in  obeis&nce 
Under  the  rule  of  governance." 

Chaucer  is  less  explicit,  and  may  have  been  too  little  of  a 
politician  by  nature  to  care  for  preserving  an  outward  con- 
sistency in  his  incidental  remarks  concerning  the  lower 
classes.  In  his  Cleric's  Tale  he  finds  room  for  a  very  du- 
bious commonplace  about  the  "  stormy  people,"  its  levity, 
untruthfulness,  indiscretion,  fickleness,  and  garrulity,  and 
the  folly  of  putting  any  trust  in  it.  In  his  JVun's  Priesfs 
Tale  he  further  enlivens  one  of  the  liveliest  descriptions 
of  a  hue-and-cry  ever  put  upon  paper  by  a  direct  reference 
to  the  Peasants'  Rebellion  : — 

"  So  hideous  was  the  noise,  ah  bencite  ! 
That  of  a  truth  Jack  Straw,  and  his  meinie 
Not  made  never  shoutes  half  so  shrill. 
When  that  they  any  Fleming  meant  to  kill." 

Assuredly,  again,  there  is  an  unmistakeably  conservative 
tone  in  the  Ballad  purporting  to  have  been  sent  by  him 
to  King  Richard,  with  its  refrain  as  to  all  being  "  lost  for 
want  of  steadfastness,"  and  its  admonition  to  its  sovereign 

"...  Shew  forth  the  sword  of  castigation." 

On  the  other  hand,  it  would  be  unjust  to  leave  unnoticed 
the  passage,  at  once  powerful  and  touching,  in  the  so- 
called  Parson's  Tale  (the  sermon  which  closes  the  Canter- 
bury Tales  as  Chaucer  left  them),  in  which  certain  lords 
are  reproached  for  taking  of  their  bondmen  amercements , 
"  which  might  more  reasonably  be  called  extortions  than 
amercements,^''  while  lords  in  general  are  commanded  to  be 
good  to  their  thralls  (serfs),  because  "  those  that  they  clept 


I.]  CHAUCER'S  TIMES.  19 

thralls,  be  God's  people ;  for  humble  folks  be  Christ's 
friends ;  they  be  contubernially  with  the  Lord."  The  sol- 
itary type,  however,  of  the  labouring  man  proper  which 
Chaucer,  in  manifest  remembrance  of  Langland's  allegory, 
produces,  is  one  which,  beautiful  and  affecting  as  it  is,  ha& 
in  it  a  flavour  of  the  comfortable  sentiment,  that  things 
are  as  they  should  be.  This  is — not,  of  course,  the  Parson 
himself,  of  which  most  significant  character  hereafter,  but 
— the  Parson's  brother,  the  Ploughnan.  He  is  a  true 
labourer  and  a  good,  religious  and  charitable  in  his  life, 
and  always  ready  to  pay  his  tithes.  In  short,  he  is  a  true] 
Christian,  but,  at  Lhe  same  time,  the  ideal  rather  than  the! 
prototype,  if  one  may  so  say,  of  the  conservativ^e  working  | 
man.  - — -^ 

Such  were  some,  though  of  course  some  only,  of  the 
general  currents  of  English  public  life  in  the  latter  half 
— Chaucer's  half — of  the  fourteenth  century.  Its  social 
features  were  naturally  in  accordance  with  the  course  of 
the  national  history.  In  the  first  place,  the  slow  and 
painful  process  of  amalgamation  between  the  Normans 
and  the  English  was  still  unfinished,  though  the  reign  of 
Edward  III.  went  far  towards  completing  what  had  rap- 
idly advanced  since  the  reigns  of  John  and  Henry  HI. 
By  the  middle  of  the  fourteenth  century  English  had 
become,  or  was  just  becoming,  the  common  tongue  of 
the  whole  nation.  Among  the  political  poems  and  songs 
preserved  from  the  days  of  Edward  III.  and  Richard  II., 
not  a  single  one  composed  on  English  soil  is  written  in 
French.  Parliament  was  opened  by  an  English  speech  in 
the  year  1363,  and  in  the  previous  year  the  proceedings  in 
the  law  courts  were  ordered  to  be  conducted  in  the  native 
tongue.  Yet  when  Chaucer  wrote  his  Canterbury  Tales, 
it  seems  still  to  have  continued  the  pedantic  affectation  of 


ao  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

a  profession  for  its  members,  like  Chaucer's  Man  of  Law, 
to  introduce  French  law-terms  into  common  conversation ; 
so  that  it  is  natural  enough  to  find  the  Summoner  follow- 
ing suit,  and  interlarding  his  Tale  with  the  Latin  scraps 
picked  up  by  him  from  the  decrees  and  pleadings  of  the 
ecclesiastical  courts.  Meanwhile,  manifold  difficulties  had 
delayed  or  interfered  with  the  fusion  between  the  two 
races,  before  the  victory  of  the  English  language  showed 
this  fusion  to  have  been  in  substance  accomplished.  One 
of  these  difficulties,  which  has  been  sometimes  regarded  as 
fundamental,  has  doubtless  been  exaggerated  by  national 
feeling  on  either  side ;  but  that  it  existed  is  not  to  be  de- 
nied. Already  in  those  ages  the  national  character  and 
temperament  of  French  and  English  differed  largely  from 
one  another ;  though  the  reasons  why  they  so  differed  re- 
main a  matter  of  argument.  In  a  dialogue,  dated  from 
the  middle  of  the  fourteenth  century,  the  French  inter- 
locutor attributes  this  difference  to  the  respective  national 
beverages :  "  We  are  nourished  with  the  pure  juice  of  the 
grape,  while  naught  but  the  dregs  is  sold  to  the  English, 
who  will  take  anything  for  liquor  that  is  liquid."  The 
case  is  put  with  scarcely  greater  politeness  by  a  living 
French  critic  of  high  repute,  according  to  whom  the  Eng- 
lish, still  weighted  down  by  Teutonic  phlegm,  were  drunken 
gluttons,  agitated  at  intervals  by  poetic  enthusiasm,  while 
the  Normans,  on  the  other  hand,  lightened  by  their  trans- 
plantation, and  by  the  admixture  of  a  variety  of  elements, 
already  found  the  claims  of  esprit  developing  themselves 
witlwn  them.  This  is  an  explanation  which  explains  noth- 
ing— least  of  all,  the  problem:  why  the  lively  strangers 
should  have  required  the  contact  with  insular  phlegm  in 
order  to  receive  the  creative  impulse — why,  in  other  words, 
Norman-French  literature  should  have  derived  so  enormous 


I.]  CHAUCER'S  TIMES.  21 

an  advantage  from  the  transplantation  of  Normans  to  Eng- 
lish ground.  But  the  evil  days  when  the  literary  labours 
of  Englishmen  had  been  little  better  than  bond-service  to 
the  tastes  of  their  foreign  masters  had  passed  away,  since 
the  Norman  barons  had,  from  whatever  motive,  invited  the 
commons  of  England  to  take  a  share  with  them  in  the 
national  councils.  After  this,  the  question  of  the  relations 
between  the  two  languages,  and  the  wider  one  of  the  rela- 
tions between  the  two  nationalities,  could  only  be  decided 
by  the  peaceable  adjustment  of  the  influences  exercised 
by  the  one  side  upon  the  other.  The  Norman  noble,  his 
ideas,  and  the  expression  they  found  in  forms  of  life  and 
literature,  had  henceforth,  so  to  speak,  to  stand  on  their 
merits ;  the  days  of  their  dominion,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
had  passed  away. 

Together  with  not  a  Httle  of  their  political  power,  the 
Norman  nobles  of  Chaucer's  time  had  lost  something  of 
the  traditions  of  their  order.  Chivalry  had  not  quite  come 
to  an  end  with  the  Crusades ;  but  it  was  a  diflScult  task  to 
maintain  all  its  laws,  written  and  unwritten,  in  these  de- 
generate days.  No  laurels  were  any  longer  to  be  gained 
in  the  Holy  Land ;  and  though  the  campaigns  of  the  great 
German  Order  against  the  pagans  of  Prussia  and  Lithuania 
attracted  the  service  of  many  an  English  knight — in  the 
middle  of  the  century,  Henry,  Duke  of  Lancaster,  fought 
there,  as  his  grandson,  afterwards  King  Henry  IV.,  did 
forty  years  later — yet  the  substitute  was  hardly  adequate 
in  kind.  Of  the  great  mediaeval  companies  of  Knights, 
the  most  famous  had,  early  in  the  century,  perished  under 
charges  which  were  undoubtedly  in  the  main  foul  fictions, 
but  at  the  same  time  were  only  too  much  in  accord  with 
facts  betokening  an  unmistakeable  decay  of  the  true  spirit 
of  chivalry ;  before  the  century  closed,  lawyers  were  rolling 


22  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

parchments  in  the  halls  of  the  Templars  by  the  Thames. 
Thus,  though  the  age  of  chivalry  had  not  yet  ended,  its 
supremacy  was  already   on  the  wane,  and  its  ideal  was 
growing  dim.      In  the   history  of   English  cliivalry  the 
reign  of  Edward  III.  is  memorable,  not  only  for  the  foun- 
dation  of  our  most  illustrious  order  of  knighthood,  but 
likewise  for  many  typical  acts  of  knightly  valour  and  cour- 
tesy, as  well  on  the  part  of  the  King  when  in  his  better 
days,  as  on  that  of  his  heroic  son.     Yet  it  cannot  be  by 
accident  that  an  undefinable  air  of  the  old-fashioned  clings 
to  that  most  delightful  of  all  Chaucer's  character  sketches, 
the  Knight  of  the  Canterbury  Tales.     His  warlike  deeds 
at  Alexandria,  in  Prussia,  and  elsewhere,  may  be  illustrated 
from  those  of  more  than  one  actual  knight  of  the  times; 
and  the  whole  description  of  him  seems  founded  on  one 
by  a  French  poet  of  King  John  of  Bohemia,  who  had  at 
least  the  external  features  of  a  knight  of  the  old  school. 
The  chivalry,  however,  which  was  in  fashion  as  the  century 
advanced,  was  one  outwardly  far  removed  from  the  sturdy 
simplicity  of  Chaucer's  Knight,  and  inwardly  often  rotten 
in  more  than   one  vital  part.     In  show  and  splendour  a 
higher  point  was  probably  reached  in  Edward  III.'s  than 
in  any  preceding  reign.     The  extravagance  in  dress  which 
prevailed  in  this  period  is  too  well  known  a  characteristic 
of  it  to  need  dwelling  upon.      Sumptuary  laws  in  vain 
sought  to  restrain  this  foible ;  and  it  rose  to  such  a  pitch 
as  even  to  oblige  men,  lest  they  should  be  precluded  from 
indulging  in  gorgeous  raiment,  to  abandon  hospitality,  a 
far  more  amiable  species  of  excess.     When  the  kinds  of 
clothing  respectively  worn  by  the  different  classes  served 
as  distinctions  of  rank,  the  display  of  splendour  in  one 
class  could  hardly  fail  to  provoke  emulation  in  the  others. 
The  long-lived  English  love  for  "crying"  colours  showi 


I.]  CHAUCER'S  TIMES.  23 

itself  amusingly  enough  in  the  early  pictorial  representa- 
tions of  several  of  Chaucer's  Canterbury  pilgrims,  though 
in  floridity  of  apparel,  as  of  speech,  the  youthful  Squire 
bears  away  the  bell : — 

"  Embroidered  was  he,  as  it  were  a  mead 
All  full  of  freshest  flowers,  white  and  red." 

But  of  the  artificiality  and  extravagance  of  the  costumes 
of  these  times  we  have  direct  contemporary  evidence,  and 
loud  contemporary  complaints.  Now,  it  is  the  jagged  cut 
of  the  garments,  punched  and  shredded  by  the  man-milli- 
ner ;  now,  the  wide  and  high  collars  and  the  long-pointed 
boots,  which  attract  the  indignation  of  the  moralist;  at 
one  time  he  inveighs  against  the  "horrible  disordinate 
scantness"  of  the  clothing  worn  by  gallants,  at  another 
against  the  "  outrageous  array  "  in  which  ladies  love  to  ex- 
hibit their  charms.  The  knights'  horses  are  decked  out 
with  not  less  finery  than  are  the  knights  themselves,  with 
"curious  harness,  as  in  saddles  and  bridles,  cruppers  and 
breastplates,  covered  with  precious  clothing,  and  with  bars 
and  plates  of  gold  and  silver."  And  though  it  is  hazard- 
ous to  stigmatize  the  fashions  of  any  one  period  as  special- 
ly grotesque,  yet  it  is  significant  of  this  age  to  find  the 
reigning  court  beauty  appearing  at  a  tournament  robed  as 
Queen  of  the  Sun ;  while  even  a  lady  from  a  manufactur- 
ing district,  the  Wife  of  Bath,  makes  the  most  of  her  op- 
portunities to  be  seen  as  well  as  to  see.  Her  "  kerchiefs  " 
were  "  full  fine "  of  texture,  and  weighed,  one  might  be 
sworn,  ten  pound — 

"  That  ou  a  Sunday  were  upon  her  head, 
Her  hosen  too  were  of  fine  scarlet  red, 
Full  straight  j-tied,  and  shoes  full  moist  and  new. 


9i  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

Upon  an  ambler  easily  she  sat, 

Y- wimpled  well,  and  on  her  head  a  hat, 

As  broad  as  is  a  buckler  or  a  targe.'* 

So,  with  a  foot-mantle  round  her  hips,  and  a  pair  of  sharp 
spurs  on  her  feet,  she  looked  as  defiant  as  any  self-con- 
scious Amazon  of  any  period.  It  might,  perhaps,  be  shown 
how,  in  more  important  artistic  efforts  than  fashions  of 
dress,  this  age  displayed  its  aversion  from  simplicity  and 
moderation.  At  all  events,  the  love  of  the  florid  and 
overloaded  declares  itself  in  what  we  know  concerning  the 
social  life  of  the  nobility,  as,  for  instance,  we  find  that  life 
reflected  in  the  pages  of  Froissart,  whose  counts  and  lords 
seem  neither  to  clothe  themselves  nor  to  feed  themselves, 
nor  to  talk,  pray,  or  swear  like  ordinary  mortals.  The 
Vows  of  the  Heron,  a  poem  of  the  earlier  part  of  King 
Edward  III.'s  reign,  contains  a  choice  collection  of  strenu- 
ous knightly  oaths ;  and  in  a  humbler  way  the  rest  of  the 
population  very  naturally  imitated  the  parlance  of  their 
rulers,  and  in  the  words  of  the  Parsoii's  Tale,  '*  dismem- 
bered Christ  by  soul,  heart,  bones,  and  body." 

But  there  is  one  very  much  more  important  feature  to 
be  noticed  in  the  social  life  of  the  nobility,  for  whom 
Chaucer's  poetry  must  have  largely  replaced  the  French 
verse  in  which  they  had  formerly  delighted.  The  relation 
between  knight  and  lady  plays  a  great  part  in  the  history 
as  well  as  in  the  literature  of  the  later  Plantagenet  pe- 
riod ;  and  incontestably  its  conceptions  of  this  relation 
still  retained  much  of  the  pure  sentiment  belonging  to  the 
best  and  most  fervent  times  of  Christian  chivalry.  The 
highest  religious  expression  which  has  ever  been  given  to 
man's  sense  of  woman's  mission,  as  his  life's  comfort  and 
crown,  was  still  a  universally  dominant  belief.  To  the 
Blessed  Virgin,  King  Edward  III.  dedicated  his  principal 

r 


I.]  CHAUCER'S  TIMES.  26 

religious  foundation ;  and  Chaucer,  to  whatever  extent  his 
opinions  or  sentiments  may  have  been  in  accordance  with 
ideas  of  ecclesiastical  reform,  displays  a  pious  devotion 
towards  the  foremost  Saint  of  the  Church.  The  lyric  en- 
titled the  Praise  of  Women,  in  which  she  is  enthusiastical- 
ly recognized  as  the  representative  of  the  whole  of  her  sex, 
is  generally  rejected  as  not  Chaucer's;  but  the  elaborate 
"  Orison  to  the  Holy  Virgin,"  beginning 

"  Mother  of  God,  and  Virgin  undefiled," 

seems  to  be  correctly  described  as  Or  alio  Gallfridi  Chau- 
cer;  and  in  Chaucer^ s  A.  B.  C,  called  La  Priere  de  Notre 
Dame,  a  translation  by  him  from  a  French  original,  we 
have  a  long  address  to  the  Blessed  Virgin  in  twenty-three 
stanzas,  each  of  which  begins  with  one  of  the  letters  of 
the  alphabet  arranged  in  proper  succession.  Nor,  apart 
from  this  religious  sentiment,  had  men  yet  altogether  lost 
sight  of  the  ideal  of  true  knightly  love,  destined  though 
this  ideal  was  to  be  obscured  in  the  course  of  time,  until 
at  last  the  Mort  d^ Arthure  was  the  favourite  literary  nour- 
ishment of  the  minions  and  mistresses  of  Edward  IV.'s 
degenerate  days.  In  his  Book  of  the  Duchess  Chaucer  has 
left  us  a  picture  of  true  knightly  love,  together  with  one 
of  true  maiden  purity.  The  lady  celebrated  in  this  poem 
was  loth,  merely  for  the  sake  of  coquetting  with  their  ex- 
ploits, to  send  her  knights  upon  errands  of  chivalry — 

"...  Into  Walachy, 
To  Prussia,  and  to  Tartary, 
To  Alexandria  or  Turkey." 

And  doubtless  there  was  many  a  gentle  knight  or  squire 
to  whom  might  have  been  applied  the  description  given 
by  the  heroine  of  Chaucer's  Troilus  and  Cressid  of  her 
lover,  and  of  that  w^hich  attracted  her  in  him  : — 
C      2*  3 


26  CHAUOEK.  [chat. 

"  For  trust  ye  well  that  your  estate  royal, 
Nor  vain  delight,  nor  only  worthiness 
Of  you  in  war  or  tourney  martial. 
Nor  pomp,  array,  nobility,  riches, 
Of  these  none  made  me  rue  on  your  distress ; 
Btit  moral  virtue,  grounded  upon  truth, 
77iat  was  the  cause  I  first  had  on  you  ruth, 

*'  And  gentle  heart,  and  manhood  that  ye  had, 
And  that  ye  had  (as  methought)  in  despite 
Everything  that  tended  unto  bad, 
As  rudeness,  and  as  popular  appetite. 
And  that  your  reason  bridled  your  delight ; 
'Twas  these  did  make  'bove  every  creature 
That  I  was  yours,  and  shall  while  I  may  'dure." 

And  if  true  affection  under  the  law  still  secured  the  sym- 
pathy of  the  better-balanced  part  of  society,  so  the  vice  of 
those  who  made  war  upon  female  virtue,  or  the  insolence 
of  those  who  falsely  boasted  of  their  conquests,  still  incur- 
red its  resentment.  Among  the  companies  which  in  the 
House  o  Fame  sought  the  favour  of  its  mistress,  Chaucer 
vigorously  satirises  the  would-be  lady-killers,  who  were  con- 
tent with  the  reputation  of  accomplished  seducers ;  and  in 
Troilus  and  Cressid  a  shrewd  observer  exclaims  with  the 
utmost  vivacity  against 

"Such  sort  of  folk — what  shall  I  clepe  them?  wL^t? 
That  vaunt  themselves  of  women,  and  by  name. 
That  yet  to  them  ne'er  promised  this  or  that. 
Nor  knew  them  more,  in  sooth,  than  mine  old  hat." 

The  same  easy  but  sagacious  philosopher  (Pandanis)  ob- 
serves  that  the  harm  which  is  in  this  world  springs  as  of- 
ten from  folly  as  from  malice.  But  a  deeper  feeling  ani- 
mates the  lament  of  the  "  good  Alceste,"  in  the  Prologue 


I.]  CHAUCER'S  TIMES.  27 

to  the  Legend  of  Good  Women,  that  among-  men  the  be- 
trayal of  women  is  now  "held  a  game."  So  indisputa- 
bly it  was  already  often  esteemed,  in  too  close  an  accord- 
ance with  examples  set  in  the  highest  places  in  the  land. 
If  we  are  to  credit  an  old  tradition,  a  poem  in  which  Chau- 
cer narrates  the  amours  of  Mars  and  Venus  was  written 
by  him  at  the  request  of  John  of  Gaunt,  to  celebrate  the 
adultery  of  the  duke's  sister-in-law  with  a  nobleman,  to 
whom  the  injured  kinsman  afterwards  married  one  of  his 
own  daughters !  But  nowhere  was  the  deterioration  of 
sentiment  on  this  head  more  strongly  typified  than  in  Ed- 
ward III.  himself.  The  King,  who  (if  the  pleasing  tale 
be  true  which  gave  rise  to  some  beautiful  scenes  in  an  old 
English  drama)  had  in  his  early  days  royally  renounced  an 
unlawful  passion  for  the  fair  Countess  of  Salisbury,  came 
to  be  accused  of  at  once  violating  his  conjugal  duty  and 
neglecting  his  military  glory  for  the  sake  of  strange  wom- 
en's charms.  The  founder  of  the  Order  of  the  Garter — 
the  device  of  which  enjoined  purity  even  of  thought  as  a 
principle  of  conduct  —  died  in  the  hands  of  a  rapacious 
courtesan.  Thus,  in  England,  as  in  France,  the  ascendency 
is  gained  by  ignobler  views  concerning  the  relation  be- 
tween the  sexes — a  relation  to  which  the  whole  system  of 
chivalry  owed  a  great  part  of  its  vitality,  and  on  the  view 
of  which  prevailing  in  the  most  influential  class  of  any 
nation,  the  social  health  of  that  nation  must  inevitably  in 
no  small  measure  depend.  Meanwhile,  the  artificialities  by 
means  of  which  in  France,  up  to  the  beginning  of  the  fif- 
teenth century,  it  was  sought  to  keep  alive  an  organised 
system  of  sentimentality  in  the  social  dealings  between 
gentlemen  and  ladies,  likewise  found  admission  in  England, 
but  only  in  a  modified  degree.  Here  the  fashion  in  ques- 
tion asserted  itself  only,  or  chiefly,  in  our  poetic  literature, 


28  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

and  in  the  adoption  by  it  of  such  fancies  as  the  praise  and 
worship  of  the  daisy,  with  which  we  meet  in  the  Prologue 
to  Chaucer's  Legend  of  Good  Women,  and  in  the  Flower 
mid  the  Leaf,  a  most  pleasing  poem  (suggested  by  a  French 
model),  which  it  is  unfortunately  no  longer  possible  to  num- 
ber among  his  genuine  works.  The  poem  of  the  Court 
of  Love,  which  was  likewise  long  erroneously  attributed 
to  him,  may  be  the  original  work  of  an  English  author ; 
but  in  any  case  its  main  contents  are  a  mere  adaptation  of 
a  peculiar  outgrowth  on  a  foreign  soil  of  conceptions  com- 
mon to  chivalry  in  general. 

Of  another  force,  which  in  the  Middle  Ages  shared  with 
chivalry  (though  not  with  it  alone)  the  empire  over  the 
minds  of  men,  it  would  certainly  be  rash  to  assert  that  its 
day  was  passing  away  in  the  latter  half  of  the  fourteenth 
century.  It  has,  indeed,  been  pointed  out  that  the  date  at 
which  Wyclif's  career  as  a  reformer  may  be  said  to  have 
begun  almost  coincides  with  that  of  the  climax  and  first 
decline  of  feudal  chivalry  in  England.  But,  without  seek- 
ing to  interpret  coincidences,  we  know  that,  though  the 
influence  of  the  Christian  Church,  and  that  of  its  Roman 
branch  in  particular,  has  asserted  and  re-asserted  itself  in 
various  ways  and  degrees  in  various  ages,  yet  in  England, 
as  elsewhere,  the  epoch  of  its  moral  omnipotence  had  come 
to  an  end  many  generations  before  the  disruption  of  its 
external  framework.  In  the  fourteenth  century  men  had 
long  ceased  to  look  for  the  mediation  of  the  Church  be- 
tween an  overbearing  Crown  and  a  baronage  and  common- 
alty eager  for  the  maintenance  of  their  rights  or  for  the 
assertion  of  their  claims.  On  the  other  hand,  the  conflicts 
which  still  recurred  between  the  temporal  power  and  the 
Church  had  as  little  reference  as  ever  to  spiritual  concerns. 
Undoubtedly,  the  authority  of  the  Church  over  the  minds 


I.]  CHAUCER'S  TIMES.  29 

of  the  people  still  depended  in  the  main  upon  the  spiritual 
influence  she  exercised  over  them ;  and  the  desire  for  a 
reformation  of  the  Church,  which  was  already  making  it- 
self felt  in  a  gradually  widening  sphere,  was,  by  the  great 
majority  of  those  who  cherished  it,  held  perfectly  compati- 
ble with  a  recognition  of  her  authority.  The  world,  it  has 
been  well  said,  needed  an  enquiry  extending  over  three 
centuries,  in  order  to  learn  to  walk  without  the  aid  of  the 
Church  of  Rome.  Wyclif,  who  sought  to  emancipate  the 
human  conscience  from  reliance  upon  any  earthly  author- 
ity intermediate  between  the  soul  and  its  Maker,  reckoned 
without  his  generation ;  and  few,  except  those  with  whom 
audacity  took  the  place  of  argument,  followed  him  to  the 
extreme  results  of  his  speculations.  The  Great  Schism 
rather  stayed  than  promoted  the  growth  of  an  English 
feeling  against  Rome,  since  it  was  now  no  longer  necessary 
to  acknowledge  a  Pope  who  seemed  the  henchman  of  the 
arch-foe  across  the  narrow  seas. 

But  although  the  progress  of  English  sentiment  towards 
the  desire  for  liberation  from  Rome  was  to  be  interrupted 
by  a  long  and  seemingly  decisive  reaction,  yet  in  the  four- 
teenth, as  in  the  sixteenth,  century  the  most  active  cause 
of  the  alienation  of  the  people  from  the  Church  was  the 
conduct  of  the  representatives  of  the  Church  themselves. 
The  Reformation  has  most  appropriately  retained  in  his- 
tory a  name  at  first  unsuspiciously  applied  to  the  removal 
of  abuses  in  the  ecclesiastical  administration  and  in  the 
life  of  the  clergy.  What  aid  could  be  derived  by  those 
who  really  hungered  for  spiritual  food,  or  what  strength 
could  accrue  to  the  thoughtless  faith  of  the  light-hearted 
majority,  from  many  of  the  most  common  varieties  of  the 
English  ecclesiastic  of  the  later  Middle  Ages  ?  Apart  from 
the  Italian  and  other  foreign  holders  of  English  benefices, 


30  CHAUCER.  [cilvp. 

who  left  tlieir  flocks  to  be  tended  by  deputy,  and  to  be 
Bhorn  by  an  array  of  the  most  offensive  kind  of  tax-gath- 
erers, the  native  clergy  included  many  species,  but  among 
them  few  which,  to  the  popular  eye,  seemed  to  embody  a 
high  ideal  of  religious  life.  The  times  had  by  no  means 
come  to  an  end  when  many  of  the  higher  clergy  sought 
to  vie  with  the  lay  lords  in  warlike  prowess.  Perhaps 
the  martial  Bishop  of  Norwich,  who,  after  persecuting  the 
heretics  at  home,  had  commanded  an  army  of  crusaders  in 
Flanders,  levied  on  behalf  of  Pope  "Urban  VI.  against  the 
anti-Pope  Clement  YII.  and  his  adherents,  was  in  the  poet 
Gower's  mind  when  he  complains  that  while 

" .  .  .  The  law  is  ruled  so, 
That  clerks  unto  the  war  intend, 
I  wot  not  how  they  should  amend 
The  woeful  world  in  other  things, 
And  so  make  peace  between  the  kings 
After  the  law  of  charity, 
Which  is  the  duty  properly 
Belonging  unto  the  priesthood." 

A  more  general  complaint,  however,  was  that  directing 
itself  against  the  extravagance  and  luxury  of  life  in  which 
the  dignified  clergy  indulged.  The  cost  of  these  unspir- 
itual  pleasures  the  great  prelates  had  ample  means  for  de- 
fraying in  the  revenues  of  their  sees ;  while  lesser  digni- 
taries had  to  be  active  in  levying  their  dues  or  the  fines 
of  their  courts,  lest  everything  should  flow  into  the  recep- 
tacles of  their  superiors.  So  in  Chaucer's  Friar's  Tale  an 
unfriendly  Regular  says  of  an  archdeacon : — 

"  For  smalle  tithes  and  for  small  offering 
He  made  the  people  piteously  to  sing. 
For  ere  the  bishop  caught  them  on  his  hook, 
They  were  down  in  the  archedeacon's  book." 


I.]  CHAUCER'S  TIMES.  31 

As  a  matter  of  course,  the  worthy  who  filled  the  office  of 
Summoner  to  the  court  of  the  archdeacon  in  question  had 
a  keen  eye  for  the  profitable  improprieties  subject  to  its 
penalties,  and  was  aided  in  his  efforts  by  the  professional 
abettors  of  vice  whom  he  kept  "ready  to  his  hand."  Nor 
is  it  strange  that  the  undisguised  worldliness  of  many 
members  of  the  clerical  profession  should  have  reproduced 
itself  in  other  lay  subordinates,  even  in  the  parish  clerks?, 
at  all  times  apt  to  copy  their  betters,  though  we  would 
fain  hope  such  was  not  the  case  with  the  parish  clerk, 
"  the  jolly  Absalom  "  of  the  Miller's  Tale.  The  love  of 
gold  had  corrupted  the  acknowledged  chief  guardians  of 
incorruptible  treasures,  even  though  few  may  have  avowed 
this  love  as  openly  as  the  "  idle  "  Canon,  whose  Yeoman 
had  so  strange  a  tale  to  tell  to  the  Canterbury  pilgrims 
concerning  his  masters  absorbing  devotion  to  the  problem 
of  the  multiplication  of  gold.  To  what  a  point  the  popu- 
lar discontent  with  the  vices  of  the  higher  secular  clertrv 
had  advanced  in  the  last  decennium  of  the  century,  may 
be  seen  from  the  poem  called  the  Complaint  of  the  Plough- 
man—  a  production  pretending  to  be  by  the  same  hand 
which  in  the  Vision  had  dwelt  on  the  sufferings  of  the 
people  and  on  the  sinfulness  of  the  ruling  classes.  Justly 
or  unjustly,  the  indictment  was  brought  against  the  priests 
of  being  the  agents  of  every  evil  influence  among  the  peo- 
ple, the  soldiers  of  an  army  of  which  the  true  head  was  not 
God,  but  Belial. 

In  earlier  days  the  Church  had  known  how  to  compen- 
sate the  people  for  the  secular  clergy's  neglect,  or  imper- 
fect performance,  of  its  duties.  But  in  no  respect  had 
the  ecclesiastical  world  more  changed  than  in  this.  The 
older  monastic  Orders  had  long  since  lost  themselves  in 
unconcealed  worldliness ;  how,  for  instance,  had  the  Bene- 


32  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

dictines  changed  their  character  since  the  remote  times 
when  their  Order  had  been  the  principal  agent  in  revivify- 
ing the  religion  of  the  land !  Now,  they  were  taunted 
with  their  very  name,  as  having  been  bestowed  upon  them 
"  by  antiphrasis,"  i.  e.,  by  contraries.  From  many  of  their 
monasteries,  and  from  the  inmates  who  dwelt  in  these 
comfortable  halls,  had  vanished  even  all  pretence  of  dis- 
guise. Chaucer's  Monk  paid  no  attention  to  the  rule  of 
St.  Benedict,  and  of  his  disciple  St.  Maur, 

"  Because  that  it  was  old  and  somewhat  strait ;" 

and  preferred  to  fall  in  with  the  notions  of  later  times. 
He  was  an  "  outrider,  that  loved  venery,"  and  whom  his 
tastes  and  capabilities  would  have  well  qualified  for  the 
dignified  post  of  abbot.  He  had  "  full  many  a  dainty 
horse"  in  his  stable,  and  the  swiftest  of  greyhounds  to 
boot ;  and  rode  forth  gaily,  clad  in  superfine  furs  and  a 
hood  elegantly  fastened  with  a  gold  pin,  and  tied  into  a 
love-knot  at  the  "  greater  end,"  while  the  bridle  of  his  steed 
jingled  as  if  its  rider  had  been  as  good  a  knight  as  any  of 
them — this  last,  by  the  way,  a  mark  of  ostentation  against 
which  Wyclif  takes  occasion  specially  to  inveigh.  This 
Monk  (and  Chaucer  must  say  that  he  was  wise  in  his  gen- 
eration) could  not  understand  why  he  should  study  books 
and  unhinge  his  mind  by  the  effort;  life  was  not  worth 
having  at  the  price ;  and  no  one  knew  better  to  what  use 
to  put  the  pleasing  gift  of  existence.  Hence  mine  host 
of  the  Tabard,  a  very  competent  critic,  had  reason  for  the 
opinion  which  he  communicated  to  the  Monk : — 

*'  It  is  a  noble  pasture  where  thou  go'st ; 
Thou  art  not  like  a  penitent  or  ghost." 

In  the  Orders  of  nuns,  certain  corresponding  features  were 


I.]  CHAUCER'S  TIMES.  88 

becoming  usual.  But  little  in  the  way  of  religious  guid- 
ance could  fall  to  the  lot  of  a  sisterhood  presided  over  by 
such  a  Prioress  as  Chaucer's  Madame  Eglantine,  whose 
mind — possibly  because  her  nunnery  fulfilled  the  functions 
of  a  finishing  school  for  young  ladies — was  mainly  de- 
voted to  French  and  deportment,  or  by  such  a  one  as  the 
historical  Lady  Juliana  Berners,  of  a  rather  later  date, 
whose  leisure  hours  produced  treatises  on  hunting  and 
hawking,  and  who  would  probably  have,  on  behalf  of  her 
own  sex,  echoed  the  MonFs  contempt  for  the  prejudice 
against  the  participation  of  the  Religious  in  field-sports : — 

*'  He  ga\e  not  for  that  text  a  pulled  hen 
That  saith,  that  hunters  be  no  holy  men." 

On  the  other  hand,  neither  did  the  Mendicant  Orders,  in- 
stituted at  a  later  date  purposely  to  supply  what  the  older 
Orders,  as  well  as  the  secular  clergy,  seemed  to  have  grown 
incapable  of  furnishing,  any  longer  satisfy  the  reason  of 
their  being.  In  the  fourteenth  century  the  Dominicans,  or 
Black  Friars,  who  at  London  dwelt  in  such  magnificence 
that  king  and  Parliament  often  preferred  a  sojourn  with 
them  to  abiding  at  Westminster,  had  in  general  grown  ac- 
customed to  concentrate  their  activity  upon  the  spiritual 
direction  of  the  higher  classes.  But  though  they  counted 
among  them  Englishmen  of  eminence  (one  of  these  was 
Chaucer's  friend,  "the  philosophical  Strode"),  they,  in 
truth,  never  played  a  more  than  secondary  part  in  this 
country,  to  whose  soil  the  delicate  machinery  of  the  In- 
quisition, of  which  they  were  by  choice  the  managers,  was 
never  congenial.  Of  far  greater  importance  for  the  popu- 
lation of  England  at  large  was  the  Order  of  the  Francis- 
cans, or  (as  they  were  here  wont  to  call  themselves  or  to 
be  called)  Minorites  or  Grey  Friars.     To  them  the  poor 


84  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

had  habitually  looked  for  domestic  ministrations,  and  for 
the  inspiring  and  consoling  eloquence  of  the  pulpit ;  and 
they  had  carried  their  labours  into  the  midst  of  the  suffer- 
ing population,  not  afraid  of  association  with  that  pover- 
ty which  they  were  by  their  vow  themselves  bound  to  es- 
pouse, or  of  contact  with  the  horrors  of  leprosy  and  the 
plague.  Departing  from  the  short-sighted  policy  of  their 
illustrious  founder,  they  had  become  a  learned  as  well  as 
a  ministering  and  preaching  Order;  and  it  was  precisely 
from  among  them  that,  at  Oxford  and  elsewhere,  sprang  a 
succession  of  learned  monks,  whose  names  are  inseparably 
connected  with  some  of  the  earliest  English  growths  of 
philosophical  speculation  and  scientific  research.  Nor  is 
it  possible  to  doubt  that  in  the  middle  of  the  thirteenth 
century  the  monks  of  this  Order  at  Oxford  had  exercised 
an  appreciable  influence  upon  the  beginnings  of  a  political 
struggle  of  unequalled  importance  for  the  progress  of  our 
constitutional  life.  But  in  the  Franciscans  also  the  four- 
teenth century  witnessed  a  change,  which  may  be  de- 
scribed as  a  gradual  loss  of  the  qualities  for  which  they 
had  been  honourably  distinguished ;  and  in  England,  as 
elsewhere,  the  spirit  of  the  words  which  Dante  puts  into 
the  mouth  of  St.  Francis  of  Assisi  was  being  verified  by 
his  degenerate  children  : — 

"  So  soft  is  flesh  of  mortals,  that  on  earth 
A  good  beginning  doth  no  longer  last 
Than  while  an  oak  may  bring  its  fruit  to  birth." 

Outwardly,  indeed,  the  Grey  Friars  might  still  often  seem 
what  their  predecessors  had  been,  and  might  thus  retain 
a  powerful  influence  over  the  unthinking  crowd,  and  to 
sheer  worldlings  appear,  as  heretofore,  to  represent  a  trou- 
blesome memento  of  unexciting  religious  obligations; 
"  Preach  not,"  says  Chaucer's  Host^ 


I.]  CHAUCER'S  TIMES.  36 

•     "...  As  friars  do  in  Lent, 
That  they  for  our  old  sins  may  make  us  weep, 
Nor  in  such  wise  thy  tale  make  us  to  sleep." 

But  in  general  men  were  beginning  to  suspect  the  motives 
as  well  as  to  deride  the  practices  of  the  Friars,  to  accuse 
them  of  lying  against  St.  Francis,  and  to  desiderate  for 
them  an  actual  abode  of  fire,  resembling  that  of  which,  in 
their  favourite  religious  shows,  they  were  wont  to  present 
the  mimic  semblance  to  the  multitude.  It  was  they  who 
became  in  England,  as  elsewhere,  the  purveyors  of  charms 
and  the  organisers  of  pious  frauds,  while  the  learning  for 
which  their  Order  had  been  famous  was  withering  away 
into  the  yellow  leaf  of  scholasticism.  The  Friar  in  general 
became  the  common  butt  of  literary  satire ;  and  though 
the  populace  still  remained  true  to  its  favourite  guides,  a 
reaction  was  taking  place  in  favour  of  the  secular  as  against 
the  regular  clergy  in  the  sympathies  of  the  higher  classes, 
and  in  the  spheres  of  society  most  open  to  intellectual  in- 
fluences. The  monks  and  the  London  multitude  were  at 
one  time  united  against  John  of  Gaunt,  but  it  was  from 
the  ranks  of  the  secular  clergy  that  Wyclif  came  forth  to 
challenge  the  ascendency  of  Franciscan  scholasticism  in 
his  university.  Meanwhile  the  poet  who  in  the  Poor  Par- 
son of  the  Town  paints  his  ideal  of  a  Christian  minister — 
simple,  poor,  and  devoted  to  his  holy  work  —  has  nothing 
but  contempt  for  the  friars  at  large,  and  for  the  whole  ma- 
chinery worked  by  them,  half  effete,  and  half  spasmodic, 
and  altogether  sham.  In  King  Arthur's  time,  says  that 
accurate  and  unprejudiced  observer,  the  Wife  of  Bath^ihQ 
land  was  filled  with  fairies — now  it  is  filled  with  friars  as 
thick  as  motes  in  the  beam  of  the  sun.  Among  them 
there  is  the  Pardoner — i.  e.,  seller  of  pardons  (indulgences) 
— with  his  "  haughty  "  sermons,  delivered  "  by  rote  "  to 


36  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

congregation  after  congregation  in  the  self -same  words, 
and  everywhere  accompanied  by  the  self -same  tricks  of 
anecdotes  and  jokes — with  his  Papal  credentials,  and  with 
the  pardons  he  has  brought  from  Rome  "  all  hot " — and 
with  precious  relics  to  rejoice  the  hearts  of  the  faithful, 
and  to  fill  his  own  pockets  with  the  proceeds :  to  wit,  a 
pillowcase  covered  with  the  veil  of  Our  Lady,  and  a  piece 
of  the  sail  of  the  ship  in  which  St.  Peter  went  out  fishing 
on  the  Lake  of  Gennesareth.  This  worthy,  who  lays  bare 
his  own  motives  with  unparalleled  cynical  brutality,  is 
manifestly  drawn  from  the  life ;  or  the  portrait  could  not 
have  been  accepted  which  was  presented  alike  by  Chaucer, 
and  by  his  contemporary  Langland,  and  (a  century  and  a 
half  later)  in  the  plagiarism  of  the  orthodox  Catholic  John 
Heywood.  There,  again,  is  the  Limitour,  a  friar  licensed 
to  beg,  and  to  hear  confession  and  grant  absolution,  within 
the  limits  of  a  certain  district.  He  is  described  by  Chaucer 
with  so  much  humour  that  one  can  hardly  suspect  much 
exaggeration  in  the  sketch.  In  him  we  have  the  truly 
popular  ecclesiastic  who  springs  from  the  people,  lives 
among  the  people,  and  feels  with  the  people.  He  is  the 
true  friend  of  the  poor,  and  being  such,  has,  as  one  might 
say,  his  finger  in  every  pie ;  for  *'  a  fly  and  a  friar  will  fall 
in  every  dish  and  every  business."  His  readily-proffered  T 
arbitration  settles  the  differences  of  the  humbler  classes  at  ' 
the  "  love-days,"  a  favourite  popular  practice  noted  already  * 
in  the  Vision  of  Langland ;  nor  is  he  a  niggard  0}  the  1 
mercies  which  he  is  privileged  to  dispense : — 

"  Full  sweetly  did  he  hear  confession, 
And  pleasant  was  his  absolution. 
He  was  an  easy  man  to  give  penance, 
Whereso  wist  to  have  a  good  pittance ; 


I.]  CHAUCER'S  TIMES.  Z1 

For  unto  a  poor  Order  for  to  give, 
Is  signe  that  a  man  is  well  y-shrive ; 
For  if  he  gave,  he  durste  make  a  vaunt 
He  wiste  that  a  man  was  repentant. 
For  many  a  man  so  hard  is  of  his  heart 
He  can  not  weep  although  he  sorely  smart. 
Therefore,  instead  of  weeping  and  of  prayers, 
Men  must  give  silver  to  the  poore  Freres." 

Already  in  the  Frencli  Roman  de  la  Rose  the  rivalry  be- 
tween the  Friars  and  the  Parish  Priests  is  the  theme  of 
much  satire,  evidently  unfavourable  to  the  former  and  fa- 
vourable to  the  latter ;  but  in  England,  where  Langland 
likewise  dwells  upon  the  jealousy  between  them,  it  was 
specially  accentuated  by  the  assaults  of  Wyclif  upon  the 
Mendicant  Orders.  Wyclif's  Simple  Priests,  who  at  first 
ministered  with  the  approval  of  the  Bishops,  differed  from 
the  Mendicants — first,  by  not  being  beggars ;  and,  second- 
ly, by  being  poor.  They  might,  perhaps,  have  themselves 
ultimately  played  the  part  of  a  new  Order  in  England, 
had  not  Wyclif  himself,  by  rejecting  the  cardinal  dogma 
of  the  Church,  severed  these  followers  of  his  from  its  or- 
ganism and  brought  about  their  suppression.  The  ques- 
tion as  to  Chaucer's  own  attitude  towards  the  WycliflSte 
movement  will  be  more  conveniently  touched  upon  below ; 
but  the  tone  is  unmistakable  of  the  references  or  allusions 
to  Lollardry  which  he  occasionally  introduces  into  the 
mouth  of  his  Host,  whose  voice  is  that  vox  populi  which 
the  upper  and  middle  classes  so  often  arrogate  to  them- 
selves. Whatever  those  classes  might  desire,  it  was  not 
to  have  "  cockle  sown  "  by  unauthorised  intruders  "  in  the 
corn  "  of  their  ordinary  instruction.  Thus  there  is  a  tone 
of  genuine  attachment  to  the  "  vested  interest "  principle, 
and  of  aversion  from  all  such  interlopers  as  lay  preachers 


88  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

and  the  like,  in  the  HosCs  exclamation,  uttered  after  the 
Reeve  has  been  (in  his  own  style)  "sermoning"  on  the 
topic  of  old  age : — 

"  What  availeth  all  this  wit? 
What  ?  should  we  speak  all  day  of  Holy  Writ  ? 
The  deyil  surely  made  a  reeve  to  preach ;" 

for  which  he  is  as  well  suited  as  a  cobbler  would  be  for 
turning  mariner  or  physician ! 

Thus,  then,  in  the  England  of  Chaucer's  days  we  find 
the  Church  still  in  possession  of  vast  temporal  wealth  and 
of  great  power  and  privileges — as  well  as  of  means  for  en- 
forcing unity  of  profession  which  the  legislation  of  the 
Lancastrian  dynasty,  stimulated  by  the  prevailing  fears  of 
heresy,  was  still  further  to  increase.  On  the  other  hand, 
we  find  the  influence  of  the  clergy  over  the  minds  of  the 
people  diminished,  though  not  extinguished.  This  was,  in 
the  case  of  the  higher  secular  clergy,  partly  attributable  to 
their  self-indulgence  or  neglect  of  their  functions,  partly 
to  their  having  been  largely  superseded  by  the  Regulars 
in  the  control  of  the  religious  life  of  the  people.  The 
Orders  we  find  no  longer  at  the  height  of  their  influence, 
but  still  powerful  by  their  wealth,  their  numbers,  their 
traditional  hold  upon  the  lower  classes,  and  their  deter- 
mination to  retain  this  hold  even  by  habitually  resorting 
to  the  most  dubious  of  methods.  Lastly,  we  find  in  the 
lower  secular  clergy,  and  doubtless  may  also  assume  it  to 
have  lingered  among  some  of  the  regular,  some  of  the  salt 
left  whose  savour  consists  in  a  single-minded  and  humble 
resolution  to  maintain  the  highest  standard  of  a  religious 
life.  But  such  "  clerks  "  as  these  are  at  no  times  the  most 
easily  found,  because  it  is  not  they  who  are  always  running 
*'  unto  London,  unto  St.  Paul's,"  on  urgent  private  affairs. 


I.J  CHAUCER'S  TIMES.  39 

"What  wonder  that  the  real  teaching  of  Wyclif,  of  which 
the  full  significance  could  hardly  be  understood  but  by  a 
select  few,  should  have  virtually  fallen  dead  upon  his  gen- 
eration, to  which  the  various  agitations  and  agitators,  often 
mingling  ideas  of  religious  reform  with  social  and  political 
grievances,  seemed  to  be  identical  in  character  and  alike 
to  require  suppression !  In  truth,  of  course,  these  move- 
ments and  their  agents  were  often  very  different  from  one 
another  in  their  ends,  and  were  not  to  be  suppressed  by 
the  same  processes. 

It  should  not  be  forgotten  that  in  this  century  learning 
was,  though  only  very  gradually,  ceasing  to  be  a  possession 
of  the  clergy  alone.  Much  doubt  remains  as  to  the  extent 
of  education — if  a  little  reading  and  less  writing  deserve 
the  name — among  the  higher  classes  in  this  period  of  our 
national  life.  A  cheering  sign  appears  in  the  circumstance 
that  the  legal  deeds  of  this  age  begin  to  bear  signatures, 
and  a  reference  to  John  of  Trevisa  would  bear  out  Hallam's 
conjecture,  that  in  the  year  1400  ''the  average  instruction 
of  an  English  gentleman  of  the  first  class  would  compre- 
hend common  reading  and  writing,  a  considerable  knowl- 
edge of  French,  and  a  slight  tincture  of  Latin."  Certain 
it  is  that  in  this  century  the  barren  teaching  of  the  Uni- 
versities advanced  but  little  towards  the  true  end  of  all 
academical  teaching  —  the  encouragement  and  spread  of 
the  highest  forms  of  national  culture.  To  what  use  could 
a  gentleman  of  Edward  III.'s  or  Richard  II.'s  day  have 
put  the  acquirements  of  a  Clerh  of  Oxenford  in  Aristoteli- 
an logic,  supplemented  perhaps  by  a  knowledge  of  Priscian, 
and  the  rhetorical  works  of  Cicero?  Chaucer's  scholar, 
however  much  his  learned  modesty  of  manner  and  senten- 
tious brevity  of  speech  may  commend  him  to  our  sym- 
pathy and  taste,  is  a  man  wholly  out  of  the  world  in  which 


40  CHAUCER.    .  [chap. 

he  lives,  though  a  dependent  on  its  charity  even  for  the 
means  vi^ith  which  to  purchase  more  of  his  beloved  books. 
Probably  no  trustworthier  conclusions  as  to  the  literary 
learning  and  studies  of  those  days  are  to  be  derived  from 
any  other  source  than  from  a  comparison  of  the  few  cata- 
logues of  contemporary  libraries  remaining  to  us;  and 
these  help  to  show  that  the  century  was  approaching  its 
close  before  a  few  sparse  rays  of  the  first  dawn  of  the 
Italian  Renascence  reached  England.  But  this  ray  was 
communicated  neither  through  the  clergy  nor  through  the 
Universities;  and  such  influence  as  was  exercised  by  it 
upon  the  national  mind  was  directly  due  to  profane  poets 
— men  of  the  world,  who,  like  Chaucer,  quoted  authorities 
even  more  abundantly  than  they  used  them,  and  made 
some  of  their  happiest  discoveries  after  the  fashion  in 
which  the  Oxford  Cleric  came  across  Petrarch's  Latin  ver- 
sion of  the  story  of  Patient  Grissel :  as  it  were  by  acci- 
dent. There  is  only  too  ample  a  justification  for  leaving 
aside  the  records  of  the  history  of  learning  in  England 
during  the  latter  half  of  the  fourteenth  century  in  any 
sketch  of  the  main  influences  which  in  that  period  deter- 
mined or  affected  the  national  progress.  It  was  not  by 
his  theological  learning  that  Wyciif  was  brought  into  liv- 
ing contact  with  the  current  of  popular  thought  and  feel- 
ing. The  Universities  were  thriving  exceedingly  on  the 
scholastic  glories  of  previous  ages;  but  the  ascendency 
was  passing  away  to  which  Oxford  had  attained  over  Paris 
— during  the  earlier  middle  ages,  and  again  in  the  fifteenth 
century  until  the  advent  of  the  Renascence,  the  central 
university  of  Europe  in  the  favourite  study  of  scholastic 
philosophy  and  theology. 

But  we  must  turn  from  particular  classes  and  ranks  of 
men  to  the  whole  body  of  the  population,  exclusively  of 


I.]  CHAUCER'S  TIMES.  41 

that  great  section  of  it  which  unhappily  lay  outside  the 
observation  of  any  but  a  very  few  writers,  whether  poets 
or  historians.  In  the  people  at  large  we  may,  indeed, 
easily  discern  in  this  period  the  signs  of  an  advance  to- 
wards that  self-government  which  is  the  true  foundation 
of  our  national  greatness.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  it  is 
impossible  not  to  observe  how,  while  the  moral  ideas  of 
the  people  were  still  under  the  control  of  the  Church,  the 
State  in  its  turn  still  ubiquitously  interfered  in  the  settle- 
ment of  the  conditions  of  social  existence,  fixing  prices, 
controlling  personal  expenditure,  regulating  wages.  Not 
until  England  had  ^ully  attained  to  the  character  of  a  com- 
mercial country,  which  it  was  coming  gradually  to  assume, 
did  its  inhabitants  begin  to  understand  the  value  of  that 
which  has  gradually  come  to  distinguish  ours  among  the 
nations  of  Europe,  viz.,  the  right  of  individual  Englishmen, 
as  well  as  of  the  English  people,  to  manage  their  own  af- 
fairs for  themselves.  This  may  help  to  explain  what  can 
hardly  fail  to  strike  a  reader  of  Chaucer  and  of  the  few 
contemporary  remains  of  our  literature.  About  our  na- 
tional life  in  this  period,  both  in  its  virtues  and  in  its  vices, 
there  is  something — it  matters  little  whether  we  call  it — 
childlike  or  childish ;  in  its  "  apert "  if  not  in  its  "  privy  " 
sides  it  lacks  the  seriousness  belonging  to  men  and  to  gen- 
erations, who  have  learnt  to  control  themselves,  instead  of 
relying  on  the  control  of  others. 

In  illustration  of  this  assertion,  appeal  might  be  made 
to  several  of  the  most  salient  feature*  in  the  social  life  of 
the  period.  The  extravagant  expenditure  in  dress,  foster- 
ed by  a  love  of  pageantry  of  various  kinds  encouraged  by 
both  chivalry  and  the  Church,  has  been  already  referred 
to ;  it  was  by  no  means  distinctive  of  any  one  class  of  the 
population.  Among  the  friars  who  went  about  preaching 
D    3  4 


42  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

homilies  on  the  people's  favourite  vices  some  humorous 
rogues  may,  like  the  Pardoner  of  the  Canterbury  Tales^ 
have  made  a  point  of  treating  their  own  favourite  vice  as 
their  one  and  unchangeable  text : — 

"  My  theme  is  always  one,  and  ever  was : 
Radix  malorwm  est  cupiditas.^^ 

But  others  preferred  to  dwell  on  specifically  lay  sins; 
and  these  moralists  occasionally  attributed  to  the  love  of 
expenditure  on  dress  the  impoverishment  of  the  kingdom, 
forgetting,  in  their  ignorance  of  political  economy  and  de- 
fiance of  common  sense,  that  this  result  was  really  due  to 
the  endless  foreign  wars.  Yet,  in  contrast  with  the  pomp 
and  ceremony  of  life,  upon  which  so  great  an  amount  of 
money  and  time  and  thought  was  wasted,  are  noticeable 
shortcomings  by  no  means  uncommon  in  the  case  of  un- 
developed civilisations  (as,  for  instance,  among  the  most 
t3^pically  childish  or  childlike  nationalities  of  the  Europe 
of  our  own  day),  viz.,  discomfort  and  uncleanliness  of  all 
sorts.  To  this  may  be  added  the  excessive  fondness  for 
sports  and  pastimes  of  all  kinds,  in  which  nations  are  apt- 
est  to  indulge  before  or  after  the  era  of  their  highest  ef- 
forts— the  desire  to  make  life  one  long  holiday,  dividing 
it  between  tournaments  and  the  dalliance  of  courts  of 
love,  or  between  archery-meetings  (skilfully  substituted  by 
royal  command  for  less  useful  exercises),  and  the  seduc- 
tive company  of  "  tumblers,"  "  fruiterers,"  and  "  waferers." 
Furthermore,  one  may  notice  in  all  classes  a  far  from  erad- 
icated inclination  to  superstitions  of  every  kind — whether 
those  encouraged  or  those  discouraged*  by  the  Church— 

*  "  For  holy  Church's  faith,  in  our  belief, 
Suffereth  no  illusion  us  to  grieve." 

TJie  Franklm's  Tale. 


t.]  CHAUCER'S  TIMES.  43 

an  inclination  unfortunately  fostered  rather  than  checked 
by  the  uncertain  gropings  of  contemporary  science. 
Hence,  the  credulous  acceptance  of  relics  like  those  sold 
by .  the  Pardoner^  and  of  legends  like  those  related  to 
Chaucer's  Pilgrims  by  the  Prioress  (one  of  the  numerous 
repetitions  of  a  cruel  calumny  against  the  Jews),  and  by 
the  Second  Nun  (the  supra-sensual  story  of  Saint  Cecilia). 
Hence,  on  the  other  hand,  the  greedy  hunger  for  the  mar- 
vels of  astrology  and  alchemy,  notwithstanding  the  grow- 
ing scepticism  even  of  members  of  a  class  represented  by 
Chaucer's  Franklin  towards 

"...  Such  ioWf 
As  in  our  days  is  not  held  worth  a  flj," 

and  notwithstanding  the  exposure  of  fraud  by  repentant 
or  sickened  accomplices,  such  as  the  gold-making  Canon's 
Yeoman.  Hence,  again,  the  vitality  of  such  quasi-scientific 
fancies  as  the  magic  mirror,  of  which  miraculous  instru- 
ment the  Squire's  "half-told  story"  describes  a  specimen, 
referring  to  the  incontestable  authority  of  Aristotle  and 
others,  who  write  "  in  their  lives  "  concerning  quaint  mir- 
rors and  perspective  glasses,  as  is  well  known  to  those  who 
have  "heard  the  books"  of  these  sages.  Hence,  finally, 
the  corresponding  tendency  to  eschew  the  consideration 
of  serious  religious  questions,  and  to  leave  them  to  clerks, 
as  if  they  were  crabbed  problems  of  theology.  For,  in 
truth,  while  the  most  fertile  and  fertilising  ideas  of  the 
Middle  Ages  had  exhausted,  or  were  rapidly  coming  to 
exhaust,  their  influence  upon  the  people,  the  forms  of  the 
doctrines  of  the  Church — even  of  the  most  stimulative  as 
well  as  of  the  most  solemn  among  them — had  grown  hard 
and  stiff.  To  those  who  received,  if  not  to  those  who 
taught,  these  doctrines  they  seemed  alike  lifeless,  unless 


44  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

translated  into  the  terms  of  the  merest  earthly  transactions 
or  the  language  of  purely  human  relations.  And  thus, 
paradoxical  as  it  might  seem,  cool-headed  and  conscientious 
rulers  of  the  Church  thought  themselves  on  occasion  called 
upon  to  restrain  rather  than  to  stimulate  the  religious  ar- 
dour of  the  multitude — fed  as  the  flame  was  by  very  va- 
rious materials.  Perhaps  no  more  characteristic  narrative 
has  come  down  to  us  from  the  age  of  the  poet  of  the  Can- 
terbury Tales  than  the  story  of  Bishop  (afterwards  Arch- 
bishop) Sudbury  and  the  Canterbury  Pilgrims.  In  the 
year  13  70  the  land  was  agitated  through  its  length  and 
breadth,  on  the  occasion  of  the  fourth  jubilee  of  the 
national  saint,  Thomas  the  Martyr.  The  pilgrims  were 
streaming  in  numbers  along  the  familiar  Kentish  road, 
when,  on  the  very  vigil  of  the  feast,  one  of  their  compa- 
nies was  accidentally  met  by  the  Bishop  of  London.  They 
demanded  his  blessing ;  but,  to  their  astonishment  and 
indignation,  he  seized  the  occasion  to  read  a  lesson  to 
the  crowd  on  the  uselessness  to  unrepentant  sinners  of 
the  plenary  indulgences,  for  the  sake  of  which  they  were 
wending  their  w^ay  to  the  Martyr's  shrine.  The  rage  of 
the  multitude  found  a  mouthpiece  in  a  soldier,  who  loudly 
upbraided  the  Bishop  for  stirring  up  the  people  against 
St.  Thomas,  and  warned  him  that  a  shameful  death  would 
befall  him  in  consequence.  The  multitude  shouted  Amen 
— and  one  is  left  to  wonder  whether  any  of  the  pious  pil- 
grims who  resented  Bishop  Sudbury's  manly  truthfulness 
swelled  the  mob  which  eleven  years  later  butchered  "  the 
plunderer,"  as  it  called  him,  "of  the  Commons."  It  is 
such  glimpses  as  this  which  show  us  how  important  the 
Church  had  become  towards  the  people.  Worse  was  to 
ensue  before  the  better  came ;  in  the  mean  time,  the  nation 
was  in  that  stage  of  its  existence  when  the  innocence  of 


1.1  CHAUCER'S  TIMES.  45 

the  child  was  fast  losing  itself ,  without  the  self-control  of 
the  man  having  yet  taken  its  place. 

But  the  heart  of  England  was  sound  the  while.  The 
national  spirit  of  enterprise  was  not  dead  in  any  class, 
from  knight  to  shipman ;  and  faithfulness  and  chastity  in 
woman  were  still  esteemed  the  highest  though  not  the 
universal  virtues  of  her  sex.  The  value  of  such  evidence 
as  the  mind  of  a  great  poet  speaking  in  his  works  fur- 
nishes for  a  knowledge  of  the  times  to  which  he  belongs 
is  inestimable ;  for  it  shows  us  what  has  survived,  as  well 
as  what  was  doomed  to  decay,  in  the  life  of  the  nation 
with  which  that  mind  was  in  sensitive  sympathy.  And 
it  therefore  seemed  not  inappropriate  to  approach,  in  the 
first  instance,  from  this  point  of  view,  the  subject  of  this 
biographical  essay  —  Chaucer,  "the  poet  of  the  dawn:" 
for  in  him  there  are  many  things  significant  of  the  age 
of  transition  in  which  he  lived ;  in  him  the  mixture  of 
Frenchman  and  Englishman  is  still  in  a  sense  incomplete, 
as  that  of  their  language  is  in  the  diction  of  his  poems. 
His  gaiety  of  heart  is  hardly  English ;  nor  is  his  willing 
(though,  to  be  sure,  not  invariably  unquestioning)  accept- 
ance of  forms  into  the  inner  meaning  of  which  he  does 
not  greatly  vex  his  soul  by  entering ;  nor  his  airy  way  of 
ridiculing  what  he  has  no  intention  of  helping  to  over- 
throw ;  nor  his  light  unconcern  in  the  question  whether 
he  is,  or  is  not,  an  immoral  writer.  Or,  at  least,  in  all  of 
these  things  he  has  no  share  in  qualities  and  tendencies, 
which  influences  and  conflicts  unknown  to  and  unfore- 
seen by  him  may  be  safely  said  to  have  ultimately  made 
characteristic  of  Englishmen.  But  he  is  English  in  his 
freedom  and  frankness  of  spirit ;  in  his  manliness  of  mind ; 
in  his  preference  for  the  good  in  things  as  they  are  to  the 
good  in  things  as  they  might  be ;  in  his  loyalty,  his  piety, 


4G  CHAUCER.  [chap,  l 

his  truthfulness.     Of  the  great  movement  which  was  to 
mould  the  national  character  for  at  least  a  long  series  of 
generations  he  displays  no  serious  foreknowledge ;  and  of 
the  elements  already  preparing  to  affect  the  course  of  that 
movement  he  shows  a  very  incomplete  consciousness.    But 
of  the  health  and  strength  which,  after  struggles  many 
and  various,  made  that  movement  possible  and  made  it 
victorious,  he,  more  than  any  one  of  his  contemporaries, 
is  the  living  type  and  the  speaking  witness.     Thus,  like 
the  times  to  which  he  belongs,  he  stands  half  in  and  half 
out  of  the  Middle  Ages,  half  in  and  half  out  of  a  phase  of 
our  national  life,  which  we  can  never  hope  to  understand 
more  than  partially  and  imperfectly.    And  it  is  this,  taken 
too-ether  with  the  fact  that  he  is  the  first  English  poet  to 
read, whom  is  to  enjoy  him,  and  that  he  garnished  not  only 
our  language  but  our  literature  with  blossoms  still  adorn- 
ing them  in  vernal  freshness — which  makes  Chaucer's  fig- 
ure  so  unique  a  one  in  the  gallery  of  our  great  English 
writers,  and  gives  to  his  works  an  interest  so  inexhaustible 
for  the  historical  as  well  as  for  the  literary  student. 


CHAPTER  n. 
Chaucer's  life  and  works. 

Something  has  been  already  said  as  to  the  conflict  of 
opinion  concerning  the  period  of  Geoffrey  Chaucer's  birth, 
the  precise  date  of  which  is  very  unUkely  ever  to  be  ascer- 
tained. A  better  fortune  has  attended  the  anxious  en- 
quiries which  in  his  case,  as  in  those  of  other  great  men, 
have  been  directed  to  the  very  secondary  question  of  an- 
cestry and  descent — a  question  to  which,  in  the  abstract 
at  all  events,  no  man  ever  attached  less  importance  than 
he.  Although  the  name  Chaucer  is  (according  to  Thynne) 
to  be  found  on  the  lists  of  Battle  Abbey,  this  no  more 
proves  that  the  poet  himself  came  of  "  high  parage,"  than 
the  reverse  is  to  be  concluded  from  the  nature  of  his  coat- 
of-arms,  which  Speght  thought  must  have  been  taken  out 
of  the  27  th  and  28th  Proj^ositions  of  the  First  Book  of 
Euclid.  Many  a  warrior  of  the  Norman  Conquest  was 
known  to  his  comrades  only  by  the  name  of  the  trade 
which  he  had  plied  in  some  French  or  Flemish  town,  be- 
fore he  attached  himself  a  volunteer  to  Duke  William's 
holy  and  lucrative  expedition  ;  and  it  is  doubtful  whether, 
even  in  the  fourteenth  century,  the  name  Le  Chaucer  is, 
wherever  it  occurs  in  London,  used  as  a  surname,  or 
whether,  in  some  instances,  it  is  not  merely  a  designation 
of  the  owner's  trade.     Thus  we  should  not  be  justified  in 


48  CHAITCER.  [chap. 

assuming  a  French  origin  for  the  family  from  which  Rich- 
ard le  Chaucer,  whom  we  know  to  have  been  the  poet's 
grandfather,  was  descended.  Whether  or  not  he  was  at 
any  time  a  shoemaker  {chancier^  maker  of  chausses),  and 
accordingly  belonged  to  a  gentle  craft  otherwise  not  un- 
associated  with  the  history  of  poetry,  Richard  was  a  citi- 
zen of  London,  and  vintner,  like  his  son  John  after  him. 
John  Chaucer,  whose  wife's  Christian  name  may  be  with 
tolerable  safety  set  down  as  Agnes,  owned  a  house  in 
Thames  Street,  London,  not  far  from  the  arch  on  which 
modern  pilgrims  pass  by  rail  to  Canterbury  or  beyond, 
and  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  great  bridge,  which  in 
Chaucer's  own  day  emptied  its  travellers  on  their  errands, 
sacred  or  profane,  into  the  great  Southern  road,  the  Via 
Appia  of  England.  The  house  afterwards  descended  to 
John's  son,  Geoffrey,  who  released  his  right  to  it  by 
deed  in  the  year  1380.  Chaucer's  father  was  probably  a 
man  of  some  substance,  the  most  usual  personal  recom- 
mendation to  great  people  in  one  of  his  class.  For  he 
was  at  least  temporarily  connected  with  the  Court,  inas- 
much as  he  attended  King  Edward  IIL  and  Queen  Philip- 
pa  on  the  memorable  journey  to  Flanders  and  Germany,  in 
the  course  of  which  the  English  monarch  was  proclaimed 
Vicar  of  the  Holy  Roman  Empire  on  the  left  bank  of  the 
Rhine.  John  Chaucer  died  in  1366,  and  in  course  of  time 
his  widow  married  another  citizen  and  vintner.  Thomas 
Heyroun,  John  Chaucer's  brother  of  the  half-blood,  was 
likewise  a  member  of  the  same  trade ;  so  that  the  young 
Geoffrey  was  certainly  not  brought  up  in  an  atmosphere 
of  abstinence.  The  Host  of  the  Canterbury  Tales^  though 
he  takes  his  name  from  an  actual  personage,  may  there- 
fore have  in  him  touches  of  a  family  portrait ;  but  Chaucer 
himself  nowhere  displays  any  traces  of  a  hereditary  devo- 


II.]  DATE  OF  HIS  BIRTH.  49 

tion  to  Bacchus,  and  makes  so  experienced  a  practitioner 
as  the  Pardoner  the  mouthpiece  of  as  witty  an  invective 
» against  drunkenness  as  has  been  uttered  by  any  assailant 
of  our  existing  licensing  laws.  Chaucer's  own  practice,  as 
well  as  his  opinion  on  this  head,  is  sufficiently  expressed 
in  the  characteristic  words  he  puts  into  the  mouth  of 
Cressid : — 

"In  everytliing, I  wot,  there  lies  measure: 

For  though  a  man  forbid  all  drunkenness, 

He  biddeth  not  that  every  creature 

Be  drinkless  altogether,  as  I  guess." 

Of  Geoffrey  Chaucer  we  know  nothing  whatever  from 
the  day  of  his  birth  (whenever  it  befell)  to  the  year  1357. 
His  earlier  biographers,  who  supposed  him  to  have  been 
born  in  1328,  had  accordingly  a  fair  field  open  for  con- 
jecture and  speculation.  Here  it  must  suffice  to  risk  the 
asseveration  that  he  cannot  have  accompanied  his  father 
to  Cologne  in  1338,  and  on  that  occasion  have  been  first 
"  taken  notice  of  "  by  king  and  queen,  if  he  was  not  bom 
till  two  or  more  years  afterwards.  If,  on  the  other  hand, 
he  was  born  in  1328,  both  events  may  have  taken  place. 
On  neither  supposition  is  there  any  reason  for  believing 
that  he  studied  at  one — or  at  both — of  our  English  Uni- 
versities. The  poem  cannot  be  accepted  as  Chaucerian, 
the  author  of  which  (very  possibly  by  a  mere  dramatic 
assumption)  declares: — 

"  Philogenet  I  call'd  am  far  and  near, 
Of  Cambridge  clerk ;"  *■ 

nor  can  any  weight  be  attached  to  the  circumstance  that 
the  Clerk,  who  is  one  of  the  most  delightful  figures  among 
the  Canterbury  Pilgrims,  is  an  Oxonian.  The  enticing 
enquiry  as  to  which  of  the  sister  Universities  may  claim 
3* 


60  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

Chaucer  as  her  own  must,  therefore,  be  allowed  to  drop, 
together  with  the  subsidiary  question,  whether  stronger 
evidence  of  local  colouring  is  furnished  by  the  Miller''s 
picture  of  the  life  of  a  poor  scholar  in  lodgings  at  Oxford, 
or  by  the  Reeve's  rival  narrative  of  the  results  of  a  Trump- 
ington  walk  taken  by  two  undergraduates  of  the  "  Solar 
Hall"  at  Cambridge.  Equally  baseless  is  the  supposition 
of  one  of  Chaucer's  earliest  biographers,  that  he  completed 
his  academical  studies  at  Paris — and  equally  futile  the  con- 
comitant fiction  that  in  France  "he  acquired  much  ap- 
plause by  his  literary  exercises."  Finally,  we  have  the  tra- 
dition that  he  was  a  member  of  the  Inner  Temple — which 
is  a  conclusion  deduced  from  a  piece  of  genial  scandal  as 
to  a  record  having  been  seen  in  that  inn  of  a  fine  imposed 
upon  him  for  beating  a  friar  in  Fleet  Street.  This  story 
was  early  placed  by  Thynne  on  the  horns  of  a  suflBciently 
decisive  dilemma :  in  the  days  of  Chaucer's  youth,  lawyers 
had  not  yet  been  admitted  into  the  Temple ;  and  in  the 
days  of  his  maturity  he  is  not  very  likely  to  have  been 
found  engaged  in  battery  in  a  London  thoroughfare. 

We  now  desert  the  region  of  groundless  conjecture,  in 
order,  with  the  year  1357,  to  arrive  at  a  firm  though  not 
very  broad  footing  of  facts.  In  this  year  "  Geoffrey  Chau- 
cer" (whom  it  would  be  too  great  an  effort  of  scepticism 
to  suppose  to  have  been  merely  a  namesake  of  the  poet) 
is  mentioned  in  the  Household  Book  of  Elizabeth,  Count- 
ess of  Ulster,  wife  of  Prince  Lionel  (third  son  of  King 
Edward  HI.,  and  afterwards  Duke  of  Clarence),  as  a  re- 
cipient of  certain  articles  of  apparel.  Two  similar  notices 
of  his  name  occur  up  to  the  year  1359.  He  is  hence 
concluded  to  have  belonged  to  Prince  Lionel's  establish- 
ment as  squire  or  page  to  the  Lady  Elizabeth ;  and  it  was 
probably  in  the  Prince's  retinue  that  he  took  part  in  tho 


II.]  EARLY  YEARS.  61 

expedition  of  King  Edward  III.  into  France,  which  began 
at  the  close  of  the  yeai  1359  with  the  ineffectual  siege  of 
Rheims,  and  in  the  next  year,  after  a  futile  attempt  upon 
Paris,  ended  with  the  compromise  of  the  Peace  of  Bretigny. 
In  the  course  of  this  campaign  Chaucer  was  taken  prison- 
er ;  but  he  was  released  without  much  loss  of  time,  as 
appears  by  a  document  bearing  date  March  1st,  1360,  in 
which  the  King  contributes  the  sum  of  16^.  for  Chaucer's 
ransom.  We  may,  therefore,  conclude  that  he  missed  the 
march  upon  Paris,  and  the  sufferings  undergone  by  the 
English  army  on  their  road  thence  to  Chartres — the  most 
exciting  experienv;es  of  an  inglorious  campaign ;  and  that 
he  was  actually  set  free  by  the  Peace.  When,  in  the  year 
1367,  we  next  meet  with  his  name  in  authentic  records, 
his  earliest  known  patron,  the  Lady  Elizabeth,  is  dead ;  and 
he  has  passed  out  of  the  service  of  Prince  Lionel  into 
that  of  King  Edward  himself,  as  Yalet  of  whose  Chamber 
or  household  he  receives  a  yearly  salary  for  life  of  twenty 
marks,  for  his  former  and  future  services.  Very  possibly 
he  had  quitted  Prince  Lionel's  service  when,  in  1361,  that 
Prince  had,  by  reason  of  his  marriage  with  the  heiress  of 
Ulster,  been  appointed  to  the  Irish  government  by  his  fa- 
ther, who  was  supposed  at  one  time  to  have  destined  him 
for  the  Scottish  throne. 

Concerning  the  doings  of  Chaucer  in  the  interval  be- 
tween his  liberation  from  his  French  captivity  and  the  first 
notice  of  him  as  Valet  of  the  King's  Chamber  we  know 
nothing  at  all.  During  these  years,  however,  no  less  im- 
portant a  personal  event  than  his  marriage  was  by  earlier 
biographers  supposed  to  have  occurred.  On  the  other 
hand,  according  to  the  view  which  commends  itself  to  sev- 
eral eminent  living  commentators  of  the  poet,  it  was  not 
courtship  and  marriage,  but  a  hopeless  and  unrequited  pas- 


62  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

sion,  which  absorbed  these  years  of  his  life.  Certain  stan- 
zas in  which,  as  they  think,  he  gave  utterance  to  this  pas- 
sion are  by  them  ascribed  to  one  of  these  years;  so  that, 
if  their  view  were  correct,  the  poem  in  question  would 
have  to  be  regarded  as  the  earliest  of  his  extant  produc- 
tions. The  problem  which  we  have  indicated  must  detain 
us  for  a  moment. 

It  is  attested  by  documentary  evidence  that  in  the  year 
1374  Chaucer  had  a  wife  by  name  Philippa,  who  had  been 
in  the  service  of  John  of  Gaunt,  Duke  of  Lancaster,  and 
of  his  Duchess  (doubtless  his  second  wife,  Constance),  as 
well  as  in  that  of  his  mother,  the  good  Queen  Philippa, 
and  who  on  several  occasions  afterwards,  besides  special 
new-year's  gifts  of  silver-gilt  cups  from  the  Duke,  received 
her  annual  pension  of  ten  marks  through  her  husband.  It 
is  likewise  proved  that,  in  1366,  a  pension  of  ten  marks 
was  granted  to  a  Philippa  Chaucer,  one  of  the  ladies  of 
the  Queen's  Chamber.  Obviously,  it  is  a  highly  probable 
assumption  that  these  two  Philippa  Chancers  were  one 
and  the  same  person ;  but  in  the  absence  of  any  direct 
proof  it  is  impossible  to  affirm  as  certain,  or  to  deny  as 
demonstrably  untrue,  that  the  Philippa  Chaucer  of  1366 
owed  her  surname  to  marriage.  Yet  the  view  was  long 
held,  and  is  still  maintained  by  writers  of  knowledge  and 
insight,  that  the  Philippa  of  1366  was  at  that  date  Chau- 
cer's wife.  In  or  before  that  year  he  married,  it  was  said, 
Philippa  Roet,  daughter  of  Sir  Paon  de  Roet  of  Hainault, 
Guienne  King  of  Arms,  who  came  to  England  in  Queen 
Philippa's  retinue  in  1328.  This  tradition  derived  special 
significance  from  the  fact  that  another  daughter  of  Sir 
Paon,  Katharine,  widow  of  Sir  Hugh  Swynford,  was  suc- 
cessively governess,  mistress,  and  (third)  wife  to  the  Duke 
of  Lancaster,  to  whose  service  both  Geoffrey  and  Philippa 


n.]  MARRUGE.  53 

Chaucer  were  at  one  time  attached.  It  was  apparently 
founded  on  the  circumstance  that  Thomas  Chaucer,  the 
supposed  son  of  the  poet,  quartered  the  Roet  arms  with 
his  own.  But  unfortunately  there  is  no  evidence  to  show 
that  Thomas  Chaucer  was  a  son  of  Geoffrey ;  and  the  su- 
perstructure must  needs  vanish  with  its  basis.  It  being 
then  no  longer  indispensable  to  assume  Chaucer  to  have 
been  a  married  man  in  1366,  the  Philippa  Chaucer  of  that 
year  may  have  been  only  a  namesake,  and  possibly  a  rela- 
tive, of  Geoffrey  ;  for  there  were  other  Chancers  in  London 
besides  him  and  his  father  (who  died  this  year),  and  one 
Chaucer  at  least  has  been  found  who  was  well-to-do  enough 
to  have  a  Damsel  of  the  Queen's  Chamber  for  his  daughter 
in  these  certainly  not  very  exclusive  times. 

There  is,  accordingly,  no  proof  that  Chaucer  was  a  mar- 
ried man  before  1374,  when  he  is  known  to  have  received 
a  pension  for  his  own  and  his  wife's  services.  But  with 
this  negative  result  we  are  asked  not  to  be  poor-spirited 
enough  to  rest  content.  At  the  opening  of  his  Book  of 
the  Duchess,  a  poem  certainly  written  towards  the  end  of 
the  year  1369,  Chaucer  makes  use  of  certain  expressions, 
both  very  pathetic  and  very  definite.  The  most  obvious 
interpretation  of  the  lines  in  question  seems  to  be  that 
they  contain  the  confession  of  a  hopeless  passion,  which 
has  lasted  for  eight  years  —  a  confession  which  certainly 
seems  to  come  more  appropriately  and  more  naturally 
from  an  unmarried  than  from  a  married  man.  "  For  eight 
years,"  he  says,  or  seems  to  say,  "  I  have  loved,  and  loved 
in  vain — and  yet  my  cure  is  never  the  nearer.  There  is 
but  one  physician  that  can  heal  me — but  all  that  is  ended 
and  done  with.  Let  us  pass  on  into  fresh  fields;  what 
cannot  be  obtained  must  needs  be  left."  It  seems  impos- 
sible to  interpret  this  passage  (too  long  to  cite  in  extenso) 


54  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

as  a  complaint  of  married  life.  Many  other  poets  have, 
indeed,  complained  of  their  married  lives,  and  Chaucer  (if 
the  view  to  be  advanced  below  be  correct)  as  emphatically 
as  any.  But  though  such  occasional  exclamations  of  im- 
patience or  regret — more  especially  when  in  a  comic  vein 
- — may  receive  pardon,  or  even  provoke  amusement,  yet  a 
Berious  and  sustained  poetic  version  of  Sterne's  "  sum  mul- 
tum  fatigatus  de  uxore  mea''''  would  be  unbearable  in  any 
writer  of  self-respect,  and  wholly  out  of  character  in  Chau- 
cer. Even  Byron  only  indited  elegies  about  his  married 
life  after  his  wife  had  left  him. 

Now,  among  Chaucer's  minor  poems  is  preserved  one 
called  the  Complaint  of  the  Death  q/*  Pe7y,  which  purports 
to  set  forth  "how  pity  is  dead  and  buried  in  a  gentle 
heart,"  and,  after  testifying  to  a  hopeless  passion,  ends 
with  the  following  declaration,  addressed  to  Pity,  as  in  a 
"  bill "  or  letter  :— 

*'  This  is  to  say :  I  will  be  yours  for  ever, 
Though  ye  me  slay  by  Cruelty,  your  foe ; 
Yet  shall  my  spirit  nevermore  dissever 
From  your  service,  for  any  pain  or  woe, 
Pity,  whom  I  have  sought  so  long  ago  \ 
Thus  for  your  death  I  may  well  weep  and  plain, 
With  heart  all  sore,  and  full  of  busy  pain." 

If  this  poem  be  autobiographical,  it  would  indisputably 
correspond  well  enough  to  a  period  in  Chaucer's  life,  and 
to  a  mood  of  mind  preceding  those  to  which  the  introduc- 
tion to  the  Book  of  the  Duchess  belongs.  If  it  be  not  au- 
tobiographical— and  in  truth  there  is  nothing  to  prove  it 
such,  so  that  an  attempt  has  been  actually  made  to  suggest 
its  having  been  intended  to  apply  to  the  experiences  of 
another  man — then  the  Complaint  of  Pity  has  no  special 
value  for  students  of  Chaucer,  since  its  poetic  beauty,  as 


11.]  MARRIAGE.  63 

there  can  be  no  harm  in  observing,  is  not  in  itself  very 
great. 

To  come  to  an  end  of  this  topic,  there  seems  no  possi« 
bility  of  escaping  from  one  of  the  following  alternatives : 
Either  the  Philippa  Chaucer  of  1366  was  Geoffrey 
Chaucer's  wife,  whether  or  not  she  was  Philippa  Roet  be- 
fore marriage,  and  the  lament  of  1369  had  reference  to 
another  lady — an  assumption  to  be  regretted  in  the  case 
of  a  married  man,  but  not  out  of  the  range  of  possibility. 
Or — and  this  seems,  on  the  whole,  the  most  probable  view 
— the  Philippa  Chaucer  of  1366  was  a  namesake  whom 
Geoffrey  married  some  time  after  1369  —  possibly  (of 
course  only  2^ossibly)  the  very  lady  whom  he  had  .oved 
hopelessly  for  eight  years,  and  persuaded  himself  that  he 
had  at  last  relinquished,  and  who  had  then  relented  after 
all.  This  last  conjecture  it  is  certainly  difficult  to  reconcile 
with  the  conclusion  at  which  we  arrive  on  other  grounds, 
that  Chaucer's  married  life  was  not  one  of  preponderating 
bliss.  That  he  and  his  wife  were  cousins  is  a  pleasing 
thought,  but  one  which  is  not  made  more  pleasing  by  the 
seeming  fact  that,  if  they  were  so  related,  marriage  in  their 
case  failed  to  draw  close  that  hearts'  bond  which  such  kin- 
ship at  times  half  unconsciously  knits. 

Married  or  still  a  bachelor,  Chaucer  may  fairly  be  sup- 
posed, during  part  of  the  years  previous  to  that  in  which 
we  find  him  securely  established  in  the  King's  service,  to 
have  enjoyed  a  measure  of  independence  and  leisure  open 
to  few  men  in  his  rank  of  life,  when  once  the  golden  days 
of  youth  and  early  manhood  have  passed  away.  Such 
years  are  in  many  men's  lives  marked  by  the  projection, 
or  even  by  the  partial  accomplishment,  of  literary  under- 
takings on  a  large  scale,  and  more  especially  of  such  as 
partake  of  an  imitative  character.     When  a  juvenile  and 


M  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

facile  writer's  taste  is  still  unsettled,  and  his  own  style  is 
as  yet  unformed,  he  eagerly  tries  his  hand  at  the  reproduc- 
tion of  the  work  of  others ;  translates  the  Iliad  or  F'aust, 
or  suits  himself  with  unsuspecting  promptitude  to  the  pro- 
duction of  masques,  or  pastorals,  or  life  dramas — or  what- 
ever may  be  the  prevailing  fashion  in  poetry  —  after  the 
manner  of  the  favourite  literary  models  of  the  day.  A  pri- 
ori, therefore,  everything  is  in  favour  of  the  belief  hitherto 
universally  entertained,  that  among  Chaucer's  earliest  po- 
etical productions  was  the  extant  English  translation  of 
the  French  Roman  de  la  Rose.  That  he  made  S07ne  trans- 
lation of  this  poem  is  a  fact  resting  on  his  own  statement 
in  a  passage  indisputably  written  by  him  (in  the  Prologue 
to  the  Legend  of  Good  Women) ;  nor  is  the  value  of  this 
statement  reduced  by  the  negative  circumstance,  that  in 
the  extraordinary  tag  (if  it  may  be  called  by  so  irreverent 
a  name)  to  the  extant  Canterbury  Tales,  the  Romaunt  of 
the  Rose  is  passed  over  in  silence,  or  at  least  not  nominally 
mentioned,  among  the  objectionable  works  which  the  poet 
is  there  made  to  retract.  And  there  seems  at  least  no  ne- 
cessity for  giving  in  to  the  conclusion  that  Chaucer's  trans- 
lation has  been  lost,  and  was  not  that  which  has  been  hith- 
erto accepted  as  his.  For  this  conclusion  is  based  upon 
the  use  of  a  formal  test,  which,  in  truth,  need  not  be  re- 
garded as  of  itself  absolutely  decisive  in  any  case,  but 
which  in  this  particular  instance  need  not  be  held  applica- 
ble at  all.  A  particular  rule  against  rhyming  with  one  an- 
other particular  sounds,  which  in  his  later  poems  Chaucer 
seems  invariably  to  have  followed,  need  not  have  been  ob- 
served by  him  in  what  was  actually,  or  all  but,  his  earliest. 
The  unfinished  state  of  the  extant  translation  accords  with 
the  supposition  that  Chaucer  broke  it  off  on  adopting  (pos- 
sibly after  conference  with  Gower,  who  likewise  observes 


u.]  THE  ROMAUNT  OF  THE  ROSE.  61 

the  rule)  a  more  logical  practice  as  to  the  point  in  ques- 
tion. Moreover,  no  English  translation  of  this  poem  be- 
sides Chaucer's  is  ever  known  to  have  existed. 

Whither  should  the  youthful  poet,  when  in  search  of 
materials  on  which  to  exercise  a  ready  but  as  yet  untrained 
hand,  have  so  naturally  turned  as  to  French  poetry,  and 
in  its  domain  whither  so  eagerly  as  to  its  universally  ac- 
knowledged master-piece?  French  verse  was  the  delight 
of  the  Court,  into  the  service  of  which  he  was  about  this 
time  preparing  permanently  to  enter,  and  with  which  he 
had  been  more  or  less  connected  from  his  boyhood.  In 
French,  Chaucer's  contemporary  Gower  composed  not  only 
his  first  longer  work,  but  not  less  than  fifty  ballads  or 
sonnets;  and  in  French  (as  well  as  in  English)  Chaucer 
himself  may  have  possibly  in  his  youth  set  his  own  'pren- 
tice hand  to  the  turning  of  "  ballades,  rondels,  virelayes.^'' 
The  time  had  not  yet  arrived,  though  it  was  not  far  dis- 
tant, when  his  English  verse  was  to  attest  his  admiration 
of  Machault,  whose  fame  Froissart  and  Froissart's  imita- 
tions had  brought  across  from  the  French  Court  to  the 
English,  and  when  Gransson,  who  served  King  Richard 
II.  as  a  squire,  was  extolled  by  his  English  adapter  as  the 
"  flower  of  them  that  write  in  France."  But  as  yet  Chau- 
cer's own  tastes,  his  French  blood,  if  he  had  any  in  his 
veins,  and  the  familiarity  with  the  French  tongue  which 
he  had  already  had  opportunities  of  acquiring,  were  more 
likely  to  commend  to  him  productions  of  broader  literary 
merits  and  a  wider  popularity.  From  these  points  of 
view,  in  the  days  of  Chaucer's  youth,  there  was  no  rival  to 
the  Roman  de  la  Rose,  one  of  those  rare  works  on  which 
the  literary  history  of  whole  generations  and  centuries 
may  be  said  to  hinge.     The  Middle  Ages,  in  which,  from 

various  causes,  the  literary  intercommunication  between  the 
E  5 


58  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

nations  of  Europe  was  in  some  respects  far  livelier  than  it 
has  been  in  later  times,  witnessed  the  appearance  of  several 
such  works — diverse  in  kind,  but  similar  to  one  another 
in  the  universality  of  their  popularity :  the  Consolation  of 
Philosophy^  the  Divine  Comedy,  the  Imitation  of  Christy 
the  Roman  de  la  Rose,  the  Ship  of  Fools.  The  favour  en- 
joyed by  the  Roman  de  la  Rose  was  in  some  ways  the 
most  extraordinary  of  all.  In  France,  this  work  remained 
the  dominant  work  of  poetic  literature,  and  "  the  source 
whence  every  rhymer  drew  for  his  needs"  down  to  the 
period  of  the  classical  revival  led  by  Ronsard  (when  it  was 
edited  by  Clement  Marot,  Spenser's  early  model).  In  Eng- 
land, it  exercised  an  influence  only  inferior  to  that  which 
belonged  to  it  at  home  upon  both  the  matter  and  the 
form  of  poetry  down  to  the  renascence  begun  by  Surrey 
and  Wyatt.  This  extraordinary  literary  influence  admits 
of  a  double  explanation.  But  just  as  the  authorship  of 
the  poem  was  very  unequally  divided  between  two  person- 
ages, wholly  divergent  in  their  purposes  as  writers,  so  the 
popularity  of  the  poem  is  probably  in  the  main  to  be  at- 
tributed to  the  second  and  later  of  the  pair. 

To  the  trouvere  Guillaume  de  Lorris  (who  took  his 
name  from  a  small  town  in  the  valley  of  the  Loire)  was 
due  the  original  conception  of  the  Roman  de  la  Rose,  for 
which  it  is  needless  to  suspec'.  any  extraneous  source.  To 
novelty  of  subject  he  added  great  ingenuity  of  treatment. 
Instead  of  a  narrative  of  warlike  adventures  he  offered  to 
his  readers  a  psychological  romance,  in  w^hich  a  combina- 
tion of  symbolisations  and  personified  abstractions  supplied 
the  characters  of  the  moral  conflict  represented.  Bestiaries 
and  Lapidaries  had  familiarised  men's  minds  with  the  art 
of  finding  a  symbolical  significance  in  particular  animals 
and  stones;  and  the  language  of  poets  was  becoming  a 


II.]  THE  ROMAUNT  OF  THE  ROSE.  69 

language  of  flowers.  On  the  other  hand,  the  personifica' 
tion  of  abstract  qualities  was  a  usage  largely  affected  by 
the  Latin  writers  of  the  earlier  Middle  Ages,  and  formed  a 
favourite  device  of  the  monastic  beginnings  of  the  Chris- 
tian drama.  For  both  these  literary  fashions,  which  mild- 
ly exercised  the  ingenuity  while  deeply  gratifying  the 
tastes  of  mediaeval  readers,  room  was  easily  found  by 
Guillaume  de  Lorris  within  a  framework  in  itself  both  ap- 
propriate and  graceful.  He  told  (as  reproduced  by  his 
English  translator)  how  in  a  dream  he  seemed  to  himself 
to  wake  up  on  a  May  morning.  Sauntering  forth,  he 
came  to  a  garden  surrounded  by  a  wall,  on  which  were 
depicted  many  unkindly  figures,  such  as  Hate  and  Villainy, 
and  Avarice  and  Old  Age,  and  another  thing 

"  That  seemed  like  a  hypocrite, 
And  it  was  clep^d  pope  holy." 

Within,  all  seemed  so  delicious  that,  feeling  ready  to  give 
an  hundred  pound  for  the  chance  of  entering,  he  smote  at 
a  small  wicket,  and  was  admitted  by  a  courteous  maiden 
named  Idleness.  On  the  sward  in  the  garden  were  dan- 
cing its  owner.  Sir  Mirth,  and  a  company  of  friends ;  and 
by  the  side  of  Gladness  the  dreamer  saw  the  God  of  Love 
and  his  attendant,  a  bachelor  named  Sweet-looking,  who 
bore  two  bows,  each  with  five  arrows.  Of  these  bows  the 
one  was  straight  and  fair,  and  the  other  crooked  and  un- 
sightly, and  each  of  the  arrows  bore  the  name  of  some 
quality  or  emotion  by  which  love  is  advanced  or  hindered. 
And  as  the  dreamer  was  gdzing  into  the  spring  of  Narcis- 
sus (the  imagination),  he  beheld  a  rose-tree  "  charged  full 
of  roses,"  and,  becoming  enamoured  of  one  of  them,  eager- 
ly advanced  to  pluck  the  object  of  his  passion.  In  the 
midst  of  this  attempt  he  was  struck  by  arrow  upon  arrow, 


60  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

shot  "  wonder  smart "  by  Love  from  the  strong  bow.  The 
arrow  called  Company  completes  the  victory ;  the  dream- 
ing poet  becomes  the  Lover  (L^Amant),  and  swears  alle- 
giance to  the  God  of  Love,  who  proceeds  to  instruct  him 
in  his  laws ;  and  the  real  action  (if  it  is  to  be  called  such) 
of  the  poem  begins.  This  consists  in  the  Lover's  desire 
to  possess  himself  of  the  Rosebud,  the  opposition  offered 
to  him  by  powers  both  good  and  evil,  and  by  Reason  in 
particular,  and  the  support  which  he  receives  from  more 
or  less  discursive  friends.  Clearlv,  the  conduct  of  such  a 
scheme  as  this  admits  of  being  varied  in  many  ways  and 
protracted  to  any  length ;  but  its  first  conception  is  easy 
and  natural,  and,  when  it  was  novel  to  boot,  was  neither 
commonplace  nor  ill-chosen. 

After  writing  about  one-fifth  of  the  22,000  verses  of 
which  the  original  French  poem  consists,  Guillaume  de 
Lorris,  who  had  executed  his  part  of  the  task  in  full  sym- 
pathy with  the  spirit  of  the  chivalry  of  his  times,  died, 
and  left  the  work  to  be  continued  by  another  trouvercy 
Jean  de  Meung  (so-called  from  the  town,  near  Lorris,  in 
which  he  lived).  "  Hobbling  John  "  took  up  the  thread 
of  his  predecessor's  poem  in  the  spirit  of  a  wit  and  an 
encyclopaedist.  Indeed,  the  latter  appellation  suits  him 
in  both  its  special  and  its  general  sense.  Beginning  with 
a  long  dialogue  between  Reason  and  the  Lover,  he  was 
equally  anxious  to  display  his  freedom  of  criticism  and 
his  universality  of  knowledge,  both  scientific  and  anecdot- 
ical.  His  vein  was  pre-eminently  satirical  and  abundantly 
allusive ;  and  among  the  chief  objects  of  his  satire  are  the 
two  favourite  themes  of  mediaeval  satire  in  general,  relig' 
ious  hypocrisy  (personified  in  Faux- Semhlanty  who  has 
been  described  as  one  of  the  ancestors  of  Tartuffe),  and 
the  foibles  of  women.    To  the  gross  salt  of  Jean  de  Meung, 


n.]  THE  ROMAUNT  OF  THE  ROSE.  61 

even  more  than  to  the  courtly  perfume  of  Guillaume  de 
Lorris,  may  be  ascribed  the  long-lived  popularity  of  the 
Roman  de  la  Rose ;  and  thus  a  work,  of  which  already 
the  theme  and  first  conception  imply  a  great  step  for- 
wards from  the  previous  range  of  mediaeval  poetry,  be- 
came a  favourite  with  all  classes  by  reason  of  the  piquancy 
of  its  flavour,  and  the  quotable  applicability  of  many  of 
its  passages.  Out  of  a  chivalrous  allegory  Jean  de  Meung 
had  made  a  popular  satire ;  and  though  in  its  completed 
form  it  could  look  for  no  welcome  in  many  a  court  or 
castle  —  though  Petrarch  despised  it,  and  Gerson,  in  the 
name  of  the  Church,  recorded  a  protest  against  it — and 
though  a  bevy  of  offended  ladies  had  well-nigh  taken  the 
law  into  their  own  hands  against  its  author — yet  it  com- 
manded a  vast  public  of  admirers.  And  against  such  a 
popularity  even  an  offended  clergy,  though  aided  by  the 
sneers  of  the  fastidious  and  the  vehemence  of  the  fair,  is 
wont  to  contend  in  vain. 

Chaucer's  translation  of  this  poem  is  thought  to  have 
been  the  cause  which  called  forth  from  Eustace  Des- 
champs,  Machault's  pupil  and  nephew,  the  complimen- 
tary ballade  in  the  refrain  of  which  the  Englishman  is 
saluted  as 

"  Grant  translateur,  noble  Geffroi  Chaucier." 

But  whether  or  not  such  was  the  case,  his  version  of  the 
Roman  de  la  Rose  seems,  on  the  whole,  to  be  a  translation 
properly  so  called — although,  considering  the  great  num- 
ber of  MSS.  existing  of  the  French  original,  it  would 
probably  be  no  easy  task  to  verify  the  assertion  that  in 
one  or  the  other  of  these  are  to  be  found  the  few  passages 
thought  to  have  been  interpolated  by  Chaucer.  On  the 
other  hand,  his  omissions  are  extensive ;  indeed,  the  whole 


62  CHAUCER.  [ciiap. 

of  his  translation  amounts  to  little  more  than  one-tliird  of 
the  French  original.  It  is  all  the  more  noteworthy  that 
Chaucer  reproduces  only  about  one-half  of  the  part  con- 
tributed by  Jean  de  Meung,  and  again  condenses  this  half 
to  one-third  of  its  length.  In  general,  he  has  preserved 
the  French  names  of  localities,  and  even  occasionally  helps 
himself  to  a  rhyme  by  retaining  a  French  word.  Occa- 
sionally he  shows  a  certain  timidity  as  a  translator,  speak- 
ing of  "  the  tree  which  in  France  men  call  a  pine,"  and 
pointing  out,  so  that  there  may  be  no  mistake,  that  mer- 
maidens  are  called  "  sereyns  "  (sirenes)  in  France.  On  the 
other  hand,  his  natural  vivacity  now  and  then  suggests  to 
him  a  turn  of  phrase  or  an  illustration  of  his  own.  As  a 
loyal  English  courtier  he  cannot  compare  a  fair  bachelor 
to  any  one  so  aptly  as  to  "  the  lord's  son  of  Windsor ;" 
and  as  writing  not  far  from  the  time  when  the  Statute  of 
Kilkenny  was  passed,  he  cannot  lose  the  opportunity  of 
inventing  an  Irish  parentage  for  Wicked-Tongue : 

"  So  full  of  cursed  rage 
It  well  agreed  with  his  lineage ; 
For  him  an  Irishwoman  bare." 

The  debt  which  Chaucer  in  his  later  works  owed  to  the 
Boman  of  the  Rose  was  considerable,  and  by  no  means 
confined  to  the  favourite  May -morning  exordium  and 
the  recurring  machinery  of  a  vision  —  to  the  origin  of 
which  latter  (the  dream  of  Scipio  related  by  Cicero  and 
expounded  in  the  widely-read  Commentary  of  Macrobius) 
the  opening  lines  of  the  Romaunt  point.  He  owes  to  the 
French  poem  both  the  germs  of  felicitous  phrases,  such 
as  the  famous  designation  of  Nature  as  "  the  Vicar  of  the 
Almighty  Lord,"  and  perhaps  touches  used  by  him  in 
passages  like  that  in  which  he  afterwards,  with  further 


11.]  THE  ROMAUNT  OF  THE  ROSE.  63 

aid  from  other  sources,  drew  the  character  of  a  true  gen- 
tleman. But  the  main  service  which  the  work  of  this 
translation  rendered  to  him  was  the  opportunity  which  it 
oSered  of  practising  and  perfecting  a  ready  and  happy 
clioice  of  words  —  a  service  in  which,  perhaps,  lies  the 
chief  use  of  all  translation,  considered  as  an  exercise  of 
8tyle.  How  far  he  had  already  advanced  in  this  respect. 
And  how  lightly  our  language  was  already  moulding  itself 
in  his  hands,  may  be  seen  from  several  passages  in  the 
poem ;  for  instance,  from  that  about  the  middle,  where 
the  old  and  new  theme  of  self-contradictoriness  of  love  is 
treated  in  endles*^  variations.  In  short,  Chaucer  executed 
his  task  with  facility,  and  frequently  with  grace,  though, 
for  one  reason  or  another,  he  grew  tired  of  it  before  he 
had  carried  it  out  with  completeness.  Yet  the  translation 
(and  this  may  have  been  among  the  causes  why  he  seems 
to  have  wearied  of  it)  has,  notwithstanding,  a  certain  air 
of  schoolwork ;  and  though  Chaucer's  next  poem,  to  which 
incontestable  evidence  assigns  the  date  of  the  year  1369, 
is  still  very  far  from  being  wholly  original,  yet  the  step  is 
great  from  the  Romaunt  of  the  Rose  to  the  Book  of  the 
Duchess. 

Among  the  passages  of  the  French  Roman  de  la  Rose 
omitted  in  Chaucer's  translation  are  some  containing  criti- 
cal reflexions  on  the  character  of  kings  and  constituted 
authorities  —  a  species  of  observations  which  kings  and 
constituted  authorities  have  never  been  notorious  for  lov- 
ing. This  circumstance,  together  with  the  reference  to 
Windsor  quoted  above,  suggests  the  probability  that  Chau- 
cer's connexion  with  the  Court  had  not  been  interrupted, 
or  had  been  renewed,  or  was  on  the  eve  of  renewing  itself, 
at  the  time  when  he  wrote  this  translation.  In  becoming 
a  courtier,  he  was  certainly  placed  within  the  reach  of  so- 


64  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

cial  opportunities  such  as  in  his  day  he  could  nowhere  else 
have  enjoyed.  In  England  as  well  as  in  Italy,  during  the 
fourteenth  and  the  two  following  centuries,  as  the  frequent 
recurrence  of  the  notion  attests,  the  "  good  "  courtier  seem- 
ed the  perfection  of  the  idea  of  gentleman.  At  the  same 
time,  exaggerated  conceptions  of  the  courtly  breeding  of 
Chaucer's  and  Froissart's  age  may  very  easily  be  formed ; 
and  it  is  almost  amusing  to  contrast  with  Chaucer's  gen- 
erally liberal  notions  of  manners,  severe  views  of  etiquette 
like  that  introduced  by  him  at  the  close  of  the  Man  of 
Laiv's  Tale,  where  he  stigmatizes  as  a  solecism  the  state- 
ment of  the  author  from  whom  he  copied  his  narrative, 
that  King  ^lla  sent  his  little  boy  to  invite  the  emperor 
to  dinner.     "  It  is  best  to  deem  he  went  himself." 

The  position  which  in  June,  1367,  we  find  Chaucer 
holding  at  Court  is  that  of  "  Valettus "  to  the  King,  or, 
as  a  later  document  of  May,  1368,  has  it,  of  "Valettus 
CsiiAesiP  Regis  " — Valet  or  Yeoman  of  the  King's  Cham- 
ber. Posts  of  this  kind,  which  involved  the  ordinary  func- 
tions of  personal  attendance — the  making  of  beds,  the 
holding  of  torches,  the  laying  of  tables,  the  going  on  mes- 
sages, etc. — were  usually  bestowed  upon  young  men  of 
good  family.  In  due  course  of  time  a  royal  valet  usually 
rose  to  the  higher  post  of  royal  squire — either  "of  the 
household  "  generally,  or  of  a  more  special  kind.  Chaucer 
appears  in  1368  as  an  "esquire  of  less  degree,"  his  name 
standing  seventeenth  in  a  list  of  seven-and-thirty.  After 
the  year  1373  he  is  never  mentioned  by  the  lower,  but  sev- 
eral times  by  Latin  equivalents  of  the  higher,  title.  Fre- 
quent entries  occur  of  the  pension  or  salary  of  twenty 
marks  granted  to  him  for  life;  and,  as  will  be  seen,  he 
soon  began  to  be  employed  on  missions  abroad.  He  had 
thus  become  a  regular  member  of  the  royal  establishment, 


II.]  IN  THE  ROYAL  SERVICE.  66 

within  the  sphere  of  which  we  must  suppose  the  associa- 
tions of  the  next  years  of  his  life  to  have  been  confined. 
They  belonged  to  a  period  of  peculiar  significance  both 
for  the  English  people  and  for  the  Plantagenet  dynasty, 
whose  glittering  exploits  reflected  so  much  transitory  glory 
on  the  national  arms.  At  home,  these  years  were  the 
brief  interval  between  two  of  the  chief  visitations  of  the 
Black  Death  (1361  and  1369) ;  and  a  few  years  earlier  the 
poet  of  the  Vision  had  given  voice  to  the  sufferings  of  the 
poor.  It  was  not,  however,  the  mothers  of  the  people  cry- 
ing for  their  children  whom  the  courtly  singer  remember- 
ed in  his  elegy  wrtten  in  the  year  1369  ;  the  woe  to  which 
he  gave  a  poetic  expression  was  that  of  a  princely  widower 
temporarily  inconsolable  for  the  loss  of  his  first  wife.  In 
1367  the  Black  Prince  was  conquering  Castile  (to  be  lost 
again  before  the  year  was  out)  for  that  interesting  protege 
of  the  Plantagenets  and  representative  of  legitimate  right, 
Don  Pedro  the  Cruel,  whose  daughter  the  inconsolable 
widower  was  to  espouse  in  1372,  and  whose  "tragic" 
downfall  Chaucer  afterwards  duly  lamented  in  his  Monh's 

Tale  :— 

"  0  noble,  0  worthy  Pedro,  glory  of  Spain, 

Whom  fortune  held  so  high  in  majesty  !" 

As  yet  the  star  of  the  valiant  Prince  of  Wales,  had  not 
been  quenched  in  the  sickness  which  was  the  harbinger  of 
death ;  and  his  younger  brother,  John  of  Gaunt,  though 
already  known  for  his  bravery  in  the  field  (he  commanded 
the  reinforcements  sent  to  Spain  in  136Y),  had  scarcely 
begun  to  play  the  prominent  part  in  politics  which  he  was 
afterwards  to  fill.  But  his  day  was  at  hand,  and  the  anti- 
clerical tenour  of  the  legislation  and  of  the  administrative 
changes  of  these  years  was  in  entire  harmony  with  the 
policy  of  which  he  was  to  constitute  himself  the  represent- 


66  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

ative.     1365  is  the  year  of  the  Statute  of  Provisors,  and 
1371  that  of  the  dismissal  of  William  of  Wykeham. 

John  of  Gaunt  was  born  in  1340,  and  was,  therefore, 
probably  of  much  the  same  age  as  Chaucer,  and,  like  him, 
now  in  the  prime  of  life.  Nothing  could,  accordingly,  be 
more  natural  than  that  a  more  or  less  intimate  relation 
should  have  formed  itself  between  them.  This  relation, 
there  is  reason  to  believe,  afterwards  ripened,  on  Chau- 
cer's part,  into  one  of  distinct  political  partisanship,  of 
which  there  could  as  yet  (for  the  reason  given  above) 
hardly  be  a  question.  There  was,  however,  so  far  as  we 
know,  nothing  in  Chaucer's  tastes  and  tendencies  to  render 
it  antecedently  unlikely  that  he  should  have  been  ready  to 
follow  the  fortunes  of  a  prince  w^ho  entered  the  political 
arena  as  an  adversary  of  clerical  predominance.  Had 
Chaucer  been  a  friend  of  it  in  principle,  he  would  hardly 
have  devoted  his  first  efforts  as  a  writer  to  the  translation 
of  the  Roman  de  la  Rose.  In  so  far,  therefore — and  in 
truth  it  is  not  very  far — as  John  of  Gaunt  may  be  after- 
wards said  to  have  been  a  Wycliffite,  the  same  description 
might  probably  be  applied  to  Chaucer.  With  such  senti- 
ments a  personal  orthodoxy  was  fully  reconcileable  in  both 
patron  and  follower ;  and  the  so-called  Chaucer's  A.  B.  C, 
a  version  of  a  prayer  to  the  Virgin  in  a  French  poetical 
"  Pilgrimage,"  might  with  equal  probability  have  been  put 
together  by  him  either  early  or  late  in  the  course  of  his 
iife.  There  was,  however,  a  tradition,  repeated  by  Speght, 
that  this  piece  was  composed  "  at  the  request  of  Blanche, 
Duchess  of  Lancaster,  as  a  prayer  for  her  private  use,  be- 
ing a  woman  in  her  religion  very  devout."  If  so,  it  must 
have  been  written  before  the  Duchess's  death,  which  oc- 
curred in  1369  ;  and  we  may  imagine  it,  if  we  please,  with 
its  twenty-three  initial  letters  blazoned  in  red  and  blue  and 


11.]  JOHN  OF  GAUNT.  6*7 

gold  on  a  flyleaf  inserted  in  the  Book  of  the  pious  Duch- 
ess— herself,  in  the  fervent  language  of  the  poem,  an  illu- 
minated calendar,  as  being  lighted  in  this  world  with  the 
Virgin's  holy  name. 

In  the  autumn  of  1369,  then,  the  Duchess  Blanche  died 
an  early  death ;  and  it  is  pleasing  to  know  that  John  of 
Gaunt,  to  whom  his  marriage  with  her  had  brought  wealth 
and  a  dukedom,  ordered  services,  in  pious  remembrance  of 
her,  to  be  held  at  her  grave.  The  elaborate  elegy  which — 
very  possibly  at  the  widowed  Duke's  request — was  com- 
posed by  Chaucer,  leaves  no  doubt  as  to  the  identity  of  the 
lady  whose  loss  it  deplores  : — 

"...  Goode  f aire  W7iite  she  hight ; 
Thus  was  my  lady  nam^d  right ; 
For  she  was  both  fair  and  bright." 

But,  in  accordance  with  the  taste  of  his  age,  which 
shunned  such  sheer  straightforwardness  in  poetry,  the 
Book  of  the  Duchess  contains  no  further  transparent  refer- 
ence to  the  actual  circumstances  of  the  wedded  life  which 
had  come  to  so  premature  an  end  —  for  John  of  Gaunt 
had  married  Blanche  of  Lancaster  in  1359  —  and  an  elab- 
orate framework  is  constructed  round  the  essential  theme 
of  the  poem.  Already,  however,  the  instinct  of  Chaucer's 
own  poetic  genius  had  taught  him  the  value  of  personal 
directness ;  and,  artificially  as  the  course  of  the  poem  is 
arranged,  it  begins  in  the  most  artless  and  effective  fash- 
ion with  an  account  given  by  the  poet  of  his  own  sleep- 
lessness and  its  cause,  already  referred  to — an  opening  so 
felicitous  that  it  was  afterwards  imitated  by  Froissart. 
And  so,  Chaucer  continues,  as  he  could  not  sleep,  to  drive 
the  night  away  he  sat  upright  in  his  bed  reading  a  "ro- 
mance," which  he  thought  better  entertainment  than  chess 


68  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

or  draughts.  The  book  which  he  read  was  the  MetamoT' 
phoses  of  Ovid  ;  and  in  it  he  chanced  on  the  tale  of  Ceyx 
and  Alcyone — the  lovers  whom,  on  their  premature  death, 
the  compassion  of  Juno  changed  into  the  sea-birds  that 
bring  good -luck  to  mariners.  Of  this  story  (whether 
Chaucer  derived  it  direct  from  Ovid,  or  from  Machault's 
French  version,  is  disputed),  the  earlier  part  serves  as  the 
introduction  to  the  poem.  The  story  breaks  off  —  with 
the  dramatic  abruptness  in  which  Chaucer  is  a  master,  and 
which  so  often  distinguishes  his  versions  from  their  orig- 
inals— at  the  death  of  Alcyone,  caused  by  her  grief  at  the 
tidings  brought  by  Morpheus  of  her  husband's  death. 
Thus  subtly  the  god  of  sleep  and  the  death  of  a  loving 
wife  mingle  their  images  in  the  poet's  mind ;  and  with 
these  upon  him,  he  falls  asleep  "  right  upon  his  book." 

What  more  natural,  after  this,  than  the  dream  which 
came  to  him  ?  It  was  May,  and  he  lay  in  his  bed  at  morn- 
ing-time, having  been  awakened  out  of  his  slumbers  by 
the  "  small-fowls,"  who  were  carolling  forth  their  notes — 
"  some  high,  some  low,  and  all  of  one  accord."  The  birds 
singing  their  matins  around  the  poet,  and  the  sun  shining 
brightly  through  his  windows  stained  with  many  a  figure 
of  poetic  legend,  and  upon  the  walls  painted  in  fine  colours, 
"  both  text  and  gloss,  and  all  the  Romaunt  of  the  Rose  " — 
is  not  this  a  picture  of  Chaucer  by  his  own  hand,  on  which 
one  may  love  to  dwell  ?  And  just  as  the  poem  has  begun 
with  a  touch  of  nature,  and  at  the  beginning  of  its  main 
action  has  returned  to  nature,  so  through  the  whole  of  its 
course  it  maintains  the  same  tone.  The  sleeper  awakened 
— still,  of  course,  in  his  dream  —  hears  the  sound  of  the 
horn,  and  the  noise  of  huntsmen  preparing  for  the  chase. 
He  rises,  saddles  his  horse,  and  follows  to  the  forest,  where 
the  Emperor  Octavian  (a  favourite  character  of  Carolingian 


n]         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  DUCHESS.         69 

legend,  and  pleasantly  revived  under  this  aspect  by  the 
modern  romanticist,  Ludwig  Tieck  —  in  Chaucer's  poem 
probably  a  flattering  allegory  for  the  King)  is  holding  his 
hunt.  The  deer  having  been  started,  the  poet  is  watching 
the  course  of  the  hunt,  when  he  is  approached  by  a  dog, 
which  leads  him  to  a  solitary  spot  in  a  thicket  among 
mighty  trees ;  and  here  of  a  sudden  he  comes  upon  a  man 
in  black,  sitting  silently  by  the  side  of  a  huge  oak.  How 
simple  and  how  charming  is  the  device  of  the  faithful  dog 
acting  as  a  guide  into  the  mournful  solitude  of  the  faithful 
man  !  For  the  knight  whom  the  poet  finds  thus  silent  and 
alone.  Is  rehearsing  to  himself  a  lay,  "  a  manner  song,"  in 
these  words : — 

"  I  have  of  sorrow  so  great  wone, 
That  joye  get  I  never  none, 
Now  that  I  see  my  lady  bright, 
Which  I  have  loved  with  all  my  might, 
Is  from  me  dead,  and  is  agone. 
Alas !  Death,  what  aileth  thee 
That  thou  should'st  not  have  taken  me, 
When  that  thou  took'st  my  lady  sweet  ? 
That  was  so  fair,  so  fresh,  so  free, 
So  goode,  that  men  may  well  see 
Of  all  goodness  she  had  no  meet." 

Seeing  the  knight  overcome  by  his  grief,  and  on  the  point 
of  fainting,  the  poet  accosts  him,  and  courteously  demands 
his  pardon  for  the  intrusion.  Thereupon  the  disconsolate 
mourner,  touched  by  this  token  of  sympathy,  breaks  out 
into  the  tale  of  his  sorrow  which  forms  the  real  subject  of 
the  poem.  It  is  a  lament  for  the  loss  of  a  wife  who  was 
hard  to  gain  (the  historical  basis  of  this  is  unknown,  but 
great  heiresses  are  usually  hard  to  gain  for  cadets  even  of 
royal  houses),  and  whom,  alas !  her  husband  was  to  lose  so 
soon  after  he  had  gained  her.     Nothing  could  be  simpler, 


^0  CHAUCER.  [CHAP. 

and  notting  could  be  more  delightful,  than  the  Black 
Knight's  description  of  his  lost  lady  as  she  was  at  the 
time  when  he  wooed  and  almost  despaired  of  winning 
her.  Many  of  the  touches  in  this  description — and  among 
them  some  of  the  very  happiest — are,  it  is  true,  borrowed 
from  the  courtly  Machault;  but  nowhere  has  Chaucer 
been  happier,  both  in  his  appropriations  and  in  the  way 
in  which  he  has  really  converted  them  into  beauties  of  his 
own,  than  in  this,  perhaps  the  most  lifelike  picture  of 
maidenhood  in  the  whole  range  of  our  literature.  Or  is 
not  the  following  the  portrait  of  an  English  girl,  all  life 
and  all  innocence — a  type  not  belonging,  like  its  opposite, 
to  any  "period"  in  particular? 

"  I  saw  her  dance  so  comelily, 
Carol  and  sing  so  sweetely, 
And  laugh,  and  play  so  womanly, 
And  looke  so  debonairly, 
So  goodly  speak  and  so  friendly, 
That,  certes,  I  trow  that  nevermore 
Was  seen  so  blissful  a  treasure. 
For  every  hair  upon  her  head, 
Sooth  to  say,  it  was  not  red, 
Nor  yellow  neither,  nor  brown  It  was, 
Methougbt  most  like  gold  it  was. 
And  ah  !  what  eyes  my  lady  had, 
Debonair,  goode,  glad  and  sad, 
Simple,  of  good  size,  not  too  wide. 
Thereto  her  look  was  not  aside, 
Nor  overthwart ;" 

but  SO  well  set  that  whoever  beheld  her  was  drawn  and 
taken  up  by  it,  every  part  of  him.  Her  eyes  seemed  ev- 
ery now  and  then  as  if  she  were  inclined  to  be  mer- 
ciful, such  was  the  delusion  of  fools:  a  delusion  in  very 
truth,  for 


n.J  THE  BOOK  OF  THE  DUCHESS.  11 

"  It  was  no  counterfeited  thing ; 
It  was  her  owne  pure  looking ; 
So  the  goddess,  dame  Nature, 
Had  made  them  open  by  measure 
And  close  ;  for  were  she  never  so  glad, 
Not  foolishly  her  looks  were  spread, 
Nor  wildely,  though  that  she  play'd ; 
But  ever,  methought,  her  eyen  said, 
'  By  God,  my  wrath  is  all  forgiven.' 


» » 


And  at  the  same  time  she  liked  to  live  so  happily  that 
dulness  was  afraid  of  her;  she  was  neither  too  "sober" 
nor  too  glad ;  in  short,  no  creature  had  ever  more  measure 
in  all  things.  Suen  was  the  lady  whom  the  knight  had 
won  for  himself,  and  whose  virtues  he  cannot  weary  of  re- 
hearsing to  himself  or  to  a  sympathising  auditor. 

"  '  Sir !'  quoth  I, '  where  is  she  now  ?' 

*  Now  ?'  quoth  he,  and  stopped  anon ; 
Therewith  he  waxed  as  dead  as  stone, 
And  said  :  '  Alas  that  I  was  bore ! 
That  was  the  loss !  and  heretofore 

I  told  to  thee  what  I  had  lost. 
Bethink  thee  what  I  said.     Thou  know'st 
In  sooth  full  little  what  thou  meanest : 
I  have  lost  more  than  thou  weenest. 
God  wot,  alas  !  right  that  was  she.' 

*  Alas,  sir,  how  ?  what  may  that  be  ?' 

*  She  is  dead.'     '  Nay  ?'     '  Yes,  by  my  truth !' 
'  Is  that  your  loss  ?  by  God,  it  is  ruth.' 


» »> 


And  with  that  word,  the  hunt  breaking  up,  the  knight 
and  the  poet  depart  to  a  "  long  castle  with  white  walls  on 
a  rich  hill "  (Richmond  ?),  where  a  bell  tolls  and  awakens 
the  poet  from  his  slumbers,  to  let  him  find  himself  lying 
in  his  bed,  and  the  book,  with  its  legend  of  love  and  sleep, 
resting  in  his  hand.     One  hardly  knows  at  whom  more  to 


^2  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

wonder — whether  at  the  distinguished  French  scholar  who 
sees  so  many  trees  that  he  cannot  see  a  forest,  and  who, 
not  content  with  declaring  the  Book  of  the  Duchess,  as  a 
whole  as  well  as  in  its  details,  a  servile  imitation  of  Ma- 
chault,  pronounces  it  at  the  same  time  one  of  Chaucer's 
feeblest  productions;  or  at  the  equally  eminent  English 
scholar  who,  with  a  flippancy  which  for  once  ceases  to  be 
amusing,  opines  that  Chaucer  ought  to  "  have  felt  ashamed 
of  himself  for  this  most  lame  and  impotent  conclusion" 
of  a  poem  "  full  of  beauties,"  and  ought  to  have  been 
"  caned  for  it !"  Not  only  was  this  "  lame  and  impotent 
conclusion"  imitated  by  Spenser  in  his  lovely  elegy,  Daph- 
ndida;^  but  it  is  the  first  passage  in  Chaucer's  writings 
revealing,  one  would  have  thought  unmistakeably,  the  dra- 
matic power  which  was  among  his  most  characteristic  gifts. 
The  charm  of  this  poem,  notwithstanding  all  the  artificial- 
ities with  which  it  is  overlaid,  lies  in  its  simplicity  and 
tnith  to  nature.  A  real  human  being  is  here  brought  be- 
fore us  instead  of  a  vague  abstraction ;  and  the  glow  of 
life  is  on  the  page,  though  it  has  to  tell  of  death  and 
mourning.  Chaucer  is  finding  his  strength  by  dipping 
into  the  true  spring  of  poetic  inspiration ;  and  in  his 
dreams  he  is  awaking  to  the  real  capabilities  of  his  genius. 
Though  he  is  still  uncertain  of  himself  and  dependent  on 
others,  it  seems  not  too  much  to  say  that  already  in  this 

'  I  have  been  anticipated  in  pointing  out  this  fact  by  the  author 
of  the  biographical  essay  on  Speiiser  in  this  series — an  essay  to  which 
I  cannot  help  taking  this  opportunity  of  offering  a  tribute  of  sincere 
admiration.  It  may  not  be  an  undesigned  coincidence  that  the  in- 
consolable widower  of  the  Daphnaida  is  named  Alcyon,  while  Chau- 
cer's poem  begins  with  a  reference  to  the  myth  of  Ceyx  and  Alcyone. 
Sir  Arthur  Gorges  reappears  as  Alcyon  in  Colin  Chutes  come  home 
again. 


11.]  MISSIONS  ABROAD.  73 

Book  of  the  Duchess  he  is  in  some  measure  an  original 
poet. 

How  unconscious,  at  the  same  time,  this  waking  must 
have  been  is  manifest  from  what  little  is  known  concern- 
ing the  course  of  both  his  personal  and  his  literary  life 
during  the  next  few  years.  But  there  is  a  tide  in  the  lives 
of  poets,  as  in  those  of  other  men,  on  the  use  or  neglect  of 
which  their  future  seems  largely  to  depend.  For  more 
reasons  than  one,  Chaucer  may  have  been  rejoiced  to  be 
employed  on  the  two  missions  abroad,  which  apparently 
formed  his  chief  occupation  during  the  years  13V0-1373. 
In  the  first  place,  -^he  love  of  books,  which  he  so  frequent- 
ly confesses,  must  in  him  have  been  united  to  a  love  of 
seeing  men  and  cities  ;  few  are  observers  of  character  with- 
out taking  pleasure  in  observing  it.  Of  his  literary  labours 
he  probably  took  little  thought  during  these  years;  al- 
though the  visit  which  in  the  course  of  them  he  paid  to 
Italy  may  be  truly  said  to  have  constituted  the  turning- 
point  in  his  literary  life.  No  work  of  his  can  be  ascribed 
to  this  period  with  certainty ;  none  of  importance  has 
ever  been  ascribed  to  it. 

On  the  latter  of  these  missions  Chaucer,  who  left  Eng- 
land in  the  winter  of  1372,  visited  Genoa  and  Florence. 
His  object  at  the  former  city  was  to  negotiate  concerning 
the  settlement  of  a  Genoese  mercantile  factory  in  one  of 
our  ports,  for  in  this  century  there  already  existed  between 
Genoa  and  England  a  commercial  intercourse,  which  is  illus- 
trated by  the  obvious  etymology  of  the  popular  term  jane 
occurring  in  Chaucer  in  the  sense  of  any  small  coin.'  It 
has  been  supposed  that  on  this  journey  he  met  at  Padua 

*  "  A  jane  "  is  in  the  Cleric's  Tale  said  to  be  a  sufficient  value  at 
which  to  estimate  the  "stormy  people." 
F    4*  6 


•74  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

Petrarcli,  whose  residence  was  near  by  at  Arqua.  The 
statement  of  the  Clerk  in  the  Canterbury  Tales  that  he 
learnt  the  story  of  patient  Griseldis  "  at  Padua  of  a  worthy 
clerk  .  .  .  now  dead,"  who  was  called  "  Francis  Petrarch, 
the  laureate  poet,"  may,  of  course,  merely  imply  that  Chau- 
cer borrowed  the  Clerk^s  Tale  from  Petrarch's  Latin  ver- 
sion of  the  original  by  Boccaccio.  But  the  meeting  which 
the  expression  suggests  may  have  actually  taken  place,  and 
may  have  been  accompanied  by  the  most  suitable  conver- 
sation which  the  imagination  can  supply;  while,  on  the 
other  hand,  it  is  a  conjecture  unsupported  by  any  evidence 
whatever,  that  a  previous  meeting  between  the  pair  had 
occurred  at  Milan  in  1368,  when  Lionel,  Duke  of  Clarence, 
was  married  to  his  second  wife  with  great  pomp  in  the 
presence  of  Petrarch  and  of  Froissart.  The  really  note- 
worthy point  is  this :  that  while  neither  (as  a  matter  of 
course)  the  translated  Romaunt  of  the  Rose  nor  the  Book 
of  the  Duchess  exhibits  any  traces  of  Italian  influence,  the 
same  assertion  cannot  safely  be  made  with  regard  to  any 
important  poem  produced  by  Chaucer  after  the  date  of 
this  Italian  journey.  The  literature  of  Italy,  which  was — 
and  in  the  first  instance  through  Chaucer  himself — to  ex- 
ercise so  powerful  an  influence  upon  the  progress  of  our 
own,  was  at  last  opened  to  him,  though  in  what  measure, 
and  by  what  gradations,  must  remain  undecided.  Before 
him  lay  both  the  tragedies  and  the  comedies,  as  he  would 
have  called  them,  of  the  learned  and  brilliant  Boccaccio — 
both  his  epic  poems  and  that  inexhaustible  treasure-house 
of  stories  which  Petrarch  praised  for  its  pious  and  grave 
contents,  albeit  they  were  mingled  with  others  of  undeni- 
able jocoseness — the  immortal  Decamerone.  He  could  ex- 
amine the  refined  gold  of  Petrarch's  own  verse,  with  its 
exquisite  variations  of  its  favourite  pure  theme  and  its  ad' 


il]  ITALIAN  INFLUENCES.  76 

equate  treatment  of  other  elevated  subjects ;  and  he  might 
gaze  down  the  long  vista  of  pictured  reminiscences,  grand 
and  sombre,  called  up  by  the  mightiest  Muse  of  the  Mid- 
dle Ages,  the  Muse  of  Dante.  Chaucer's  genius,  it  may 
be  said  at  once,  was  not  transformed  by  its  contact  with 
Italian  literature ;  for  a  conscious  desire  as  well  as  a  con- 
scientious effort  is  needed  for  bringing  about  such  a  trans- 
formation ;  and  to  compare  the  results  of  his  first  Italian 
journey  with  those  of  Goethe's  pilgrimage  across  the  Alps, 
for  instance,  would  be  palpably  absurd.  It  might  even  be 
doubted  whether,  for  the  themes  which  he  was  afterwards 
likely  to  choose,  ard  actually  did  choose,  for  poetic  treat- 
ment, the  materials  at  his  command  in  French  (and  Eng- 
lish) poetry  and  prose  would  not  have  sufficed  him.  As 
it  was,  it  seems  probable  that  he  took  many  things  from 
Italian  literature ;  it  is  certain  that  he  learnt  much  from 
it.  There  seems  every  reason  to  conclude  that  the  influ- 
ence of  Italian  study  upon  Chaucer  made  him  more  assid- 
uous, as  well  as  more  careful,  in  the  employment  of  his 
poetic  powers — more  hopeful  at  once,  if  one  may  so  say, 
and  more  assured  of  himself. 

Meanwhile,  soon  after  his  return  from  his  second  for- 
eign mission,  he  was  enabled  to  begin  a  more  settled  life 
at  home.  He  had  acquitted  himself  to  the  satisfaction  of 
the  Crown,  as  is  shown  by  the  grant  for  life  of  a  daily 
pitcher  of  wine,  made  to  him  on  April  23rd,  1374,  the 
merry  day  of  the  Feast  of  St.  George.  It  would,  of  course, 
be  a  mistake  to  conclude,  from  any  seeming  analogies  of 
later  times,  that  this  grant,  which  was  received  by  Chaucer 
in  money-value,  and  which  seems  finally  to  have  been  com- 
muted for  an  annual  payment  of  twenty  marks,  betokened 
on  the  part  of  the  King  a  spirit  of  patronage  appropriate 
to  the  claims  of  literary  leisure.     How  remote  such  a  no- 


76  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

tion  was  from  the  minds  of  Chaucer's  employers  is  proved 
by  the  terms  of  the  patent  by  which,  in  the  month  of  June 
following,  he  was  appointed  Comptroller  of  the  Customs 
and  Subsidy  of  wools,  skins,  and  tanned  hides  in  the  port 
of  London.    This  patent  (doubtless  according  to  the  usual 
official  form)  required  him  to  write  the  rolls  of  his  office 
with  his  own  hand,  to  be  continually  present  there,  and  to 
perform  his  duties  in  person,  and  not  by  deputy.    By  a  war- 
rant of  the  same  month  Chaucer  was  granted  the  pension 
of  10/.  for  life  already  mentioned,  for  services  rendered  by 
him  and  his  wife  to  the  Duke  and  Duchess  of  Lancaster 
and  to  the  Queen ;  by  two  successive  grants  of  the  year 
1375  he  received  further  pecuniary  gratifications  of  a  more 
or  less  temporary  nature  ;  and  he  continued  to  receive  his 
pension  and  allowance  for  robes  as  one  of  the  royal  es- 
quires.   We  may,  therefore,  conceive  of  him  as  now  estab- 
lished in  a  comfortable  as  well  as  seemingly  secure  posi- 
tion.    His  regular  work  as  comptroller  (of  which  a  few 
scattered  documentary  vestiges  are  preserved)  scarcely  of- 
fers more  points  for  the  imagination  to  exercise  itself  upon 
than  Burns's  excisemanship  or  Wordsworth's  collectorship 
of  stamps,*  though  doubtless  it  must  have  brought  him 
into  constant  contact  with  merchants  and  with  shipmen, 
and  may  have  suggested  to  him  many  a  broad  descriptive 
touch.    On  the  other  hand,  it  is  not  necessary  to  be  a  poet 
to  feel  something  of  that  ineffable  ennui  of  official  life,  which 
even  the  self -compensatory  practice  of  arriving  late  at  one's 
desk,  but  departing  from  it  early,  can  only  abate,  but  not 
take  away.     The  passage  has  been  often  quoted  in  which 
Chaucer  half  implies  a  feeling  of  the  kind,  and  tells  how 

»  It  is  a  curious  circumstance  that  Dryden  should  have  received, 
as  a  reward  for  his  political  services  as  a  satirist,  an  oflace  almost 
identical  with  Chaucer's.     But  he  held  it  for  little  more  than  a  year. 


n.]  OFFICIAL  EMPLOYMENTS.  77 

he  sought  recreation  from  what  Charles  Lamb  would  have 
called  his  "  works "  at  the  Custom  House  in  the  reading, 
as  we  know  he  did  in  the  writing,  of  other  books : — 

"...  When  thy  labour  done  all  is, 
And  hast  y-made  reckonings. 
Instead  of  rest  and  newe  things 
Thou  go' St  home  to  thine  house  anon, 
And  there  as  dumb  as  any  stone 
Thou  sittest  at  another  book." 

The  house  at  home  was  doubtless  that  in  Aldgate,  of  which 
the  lease  to  Chaucer,  bearing  date  May,  1374,  has  been  dis- 
covered ;  and  to  this  we  may  fancy  Chaucer  walking  morn- 
ing and  evening  from  the  river-side,  past  the  Postern  Gate 
by  the  Tower.  Already,  however,  in  1376,  the  routine  of 
his  occupations  appears  to  have  been  interrupted  by  his 
engagement  on  some  secret  service  under  Sir  John  Bur- 
ley;  and  in  the  following  year,  and  in  1378,  he  was  re- 
peatedly abroad  in  the  service  of  the  Crown.  On  one  of 
his  journeys  in  the  last-named  year  he  was  attached  in  a 
subordinate  capacity  to  the  embassy  sent  to  negotiate  for 
the  marriage  with  the  French  King  Charles  V.'s  daughter 
Mary  to  the  young  King  Richard  II.,  who  had  succeeded 
to  his  grandfather  in  1377 — one  of  those  matrimonial 
missions  which,  in  the  days  of  both  Plantagenets  and  Tu- 
dors,  formed  so  large  a  part  of  the  functions  of  European 
diplomacy,  and  which  not  unfrequently,  as  in  this  case  at 
least  ultimately,  came  to  nothing.  A  later  journey  in  May 
of  the  same  year  took  Chaucer  once  more  to  Italy,  whither 
he  had  been  sent  with  Sir  Edward  Berkeley  to  treat  with 
Bernardo  Visconti,  joint  lord  of  Milan,  and  "  scourge  of 
Lombardy,"  and  Sir  John  Hawkwood  —  the  former  of 
whom  finds  a  place  in  that  brief  mirror  of  magistrates, 
the  Monicas  Tale.     It  was  on  this  occasion  that  of  the  two 


•78  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

persons  wLom,  according  to  custom,  Chaucer  appointed  to 
appear  for  him  in  the  Courts  during  his  absence,  one  was 
John  Gower,  whose  name  as  that  of  the  second  poet  of  his 
age  is  indissohibly  linked  with  Chaucer's  own. 

So  far,  the  new  reign,  which  had  opened  amidst  doubts 
and  difficulties  for  the  country,  had  to  the  faithful  servant 
of  the  dynasty  brought  an  increase  of  royal  good-will.     In 
1381 — after  the  suppression  of  the  great  rebellion  of  the 
villeins — King  Richard  II.  had  married  the  princess  whose 
name  for  a  season  linked  together  the  history  of  two  coun- 
tries the  destinies  of  which  had  before  that  age,  as  they 
have  since,  lain  far  asunder.     Yet  both  Bohemia  and  Eng- 
land, besides  the  nations  which  received  from  the  former 
the  impulses  communicated  to  it  by  the  latter,  have  reason 
to  remember  Queen  Anne,  the  learned  and  the  good ;  since 
to  her  was  probably  due,  in  the  first  instance,  the  intellectu- 
al intercourse  between  her  native  and  her  adopted  country. 
There  seems  every  reason  to  believe  that  it  was  the  ap- 
proach of  this  marriage  which  Chaucer  celebrated  in  one 
of  the  brightest  and  most  jocund  marriage-poems  ever  com- 
posed by  a  laureate's  hand ;  and  if  this  was  so,  he  cannot 
but  have  augmented  the  favour  with  which  he  was  regarded 
at  Court.    When,  therefore,  by  May,  1382,  his  foreign  jour- 
neys had  come  to  an  end,  we  do  not  wonder  to  find  that, 
without  being  called  upon  to  relinquish  his  former  office, 
he  was  appointed  in  addition  to  the  ComptroUership  of  the 
Petty  Customs  in  the  Port  of  London,  of  which  post  he  was 
allowed  to  execute  the  duties  by  deputy.      In  November, 
1384,  he  received  permission  to  absent  himself  from  his  old 
comptrollership  for  a  month;  and  in  February,  1385,  was 
allowed  to  appoint  a  (permanent)  deputy  for  this  office 
also.    During  the  month  of  October,  1386,  he  sat  in  Parlia- 
ment at  Westminster  as  one  of  the  Knights  of  the  Shire 


II.]  CHAUCER'>S  POSITION  IN  1386.  79 

for  Kent,  where  we  may  consequently  assume  him  to  have 
possessed  landed  property.  His  fortunes,  therefore,  at 
this  period  had  clearly  risen  to  their  height ;  and  naturally 
enough  his  commentators  are  anxious  to  assign  to  these 
years  the  sunniest,  as  well  as  some  of  the  most  elaborate, 
of  his  literary  productions.  It  is  altogether  probable  that 
the  amount  of  leisure  now  at  Chaucer's  command  enabled 
him  to  carry  into  execution  some  of  the  works  for  which 
he  had  gathered  materials  abroad  and  at  home,  and  to 
prepare  others.  Inasmuch  as  it  contains  the  passage  cited 
above,  referring  to  Chaucer's  official  employment,  his  poem 
called  the  House  of  Fame  must  have  been  written  between 
1374  and  1386  (when  Chaucer  quitted  office),  and  proba- 
bly is  to  be  dated  near  the  latter  year.  Inasmuch  as  both 
this  poem  and  Troilus  and  Cressid  are  mentioned  in  the 
Prologue  to  the  Legend  of  Good  Women,  they  must  have 
been  written  earlier  than  it ;  and  the  dedication  of  Troi- 
lus to  Gower  and  Strode  very  well  agrees  with  the  rela- 
tions known  to  have  existed  about  this  time  between 
Chaucer  and  his  brother -poet.  Very  probably  all  these 
three  works  may  have  been  put  forth,  in  more  or  less 
rapid  succession,  during  this  fortunate  season  of  Chau- 
cer's life. 

A  fortunate  season  —  for  in  it  the  prince  who,  from 
whatever  cause,  was  indisputably  the  patron  of  Chaucer 
and  his  wife,  had,  notwithstanding  his  unpopularity  among 
the  lower  orders,  and  the  deep  suspicion  fostered  by  hos- 
tile whisperings  against  him  in  his  royal  nephew's  breast, 
still  contrived  to  hold  the  first  place  by  the  throne. 
Though  serious  danger  had  already  existed  of  a  conflict 
between  the  King  and  his  uncle,  yet  John  of  Gaunt  and 
his  Duchess  Constance  bad  been  graciously  dismissed  with 
a  royal  gift  of  golden  crowns,  when,  in  July,  1386,  he 


80  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

took  his  departure  for  the  Continent,  to  busy  himself  till 
his  return  home  in  November,  1389,  with  the  affairs  of 
Castile,  and  with  claims  arising  out  of  his  disbursements 
there.  The  reasons  for  Chaucer's  attachment  to  this  par- 
ticular patron  are  probably  not  far  to  seek ;  on  the  precise 
nature  of  the  relation  between  them  it  is  useless  to  specu- 
late. Before  Wyclifs  death  in  1384,  John  of  Gaunt  had 
openly  dissociated  himself  from  the  reformer;  and  what- 
ever may  have  been  the  case  in  his  later  years,  it  was 
certainly  not  as  a  follower  of  his  old  patron  that  at  this 
date  Chaucer  could  have  been  considered  a  WycliflSte. 

Again,  this  period  of  Chaucer's  life  may  be  called  fort- 
unate, because  during  it  he  seems  to  have  enjoyed  the 
only  congenial  friendships  of  which  any  notice  remains  to 
us.  The  poem  of  Troilus  and  Cressid  is,  as  was  just  noted, 
dedicated  to  "the  moral  Gower  and  the  philosophical 
Strode."  Ralph  Strode  was  a  Dominican  of  Jedburgh 
Abbey,  a  travelled  scholar,  whose  journeys  had  carried 
him  as  far  as  the  Holy  Land,  and  who  was  celebrated  as 
a  poet  in  both  the  Latin  and  the  English  tongue,  and  as 
a  theologian  and  philosopher.  In  connexion  with  specu- 
lations concerning  Chaucer's  relations  to  WycliflSsm  it  is 
worth  noting  that  Strode,  who,  after  his  return  to  England, 
was  appointed  to  superintend  several  new  monasteries, 
was  the  author  of  a  series  of  controversial  arguments 
against  Wyclif.  The  tradition,  according  to  which  he 
taught  one  of  Chaucer's  sons,  is  untrustworthy.  Of  John 
Gower's  life  little  more  is  known  than  of  Chaucer's;  he 
appears  to  have  been  a  Suffolk  man,  holding  manors  in 
that  county  as  well  as  in  Essex,  but  occasionally  to  have 
resided  in  Kent.  At  the  period  of  which  we  are  speak- 
ing, he  may  be  supposed,  besides  his  French  Droductions. 
to  have  already  published  his  Latin  Vox  Clamantis-^^ 


II.]  GOWER.  81 

poem  which,  beginning  with  an  allegorical  narrative  of 
Wat  Tyler's  rebellion,  passes  on  to  a  series  of  reflexions 
on  the  causes  of  the  movement,  conceived  in  a  spirit  of 
indignation  against  the  corruptions  of  the  Church,  but 
not  of  sympathy  with  Wycliffism.  This  is  no  doubt  the 
poem  which  obtained  for  Gower  the  epithet  "  moral " 
{i,  e.,  sententious)  applied  to  him  by  Chaucer,  and  after- 
wards by  Dunbar,  Hawes,  and  Shakspeare.  Gower's  Vox 
Clamantis  and  other  Latin  poems  (including  one  "  against 
the  astuteness  of  the  Evil  One  in  the  matter  of  Lollardry  ") 
are  forgotten ;  but  his  English  Confessio  Amantis  has  re- 
tained its  right  to  a  place  of  honour  in  the  history  of 
our  literature.  The  most  interesting  part  of  this  poem, 
its  Prologue^  has  already  been  cited  as  of  value  for  our 
knowledge  of  the  political  and  social  condition  of  its 
times.  It  gives  expression  to  a  conservative  tone  and  tem- 
per of  mind ;  and,  like  many  conservative  minda^  Gower's 
had  adopted,  or  affected  to  adopt,  the  conviction  that  the 
world  was  coming  to  an  end.  The  cause  of  the  antici- 
pated catastrophe  he  found  in  the  division,  or  absence  of 
concord  and  love,  manifest  in  the  condition  of  things 
around.  The  intensity  of  strife  visible  among  the  con- 
flicting elements  of  which  the  world,  like  the  individual 
human  being,  is  composed,  too  clearly  announced  the 
imminent  end  of  all  things.  Would  that  a  new  Arion 
might  arise  to  make  peace  where  now  is  hate ;  but, 
alas !  the  prevailing  confusion  is  such  that  God  alone 
may  set  it  right.  But  the  poem  which  follows  cannot 
be  said  to  sustain  the  interest  excited  by  this  introduc- 
tion. Its  machinery  was  obviously  suggested  by  that 
of  the  Roman  de  la  Rose,  though,  as  Warton  has  hap- 
pily phrased  it,  Gower,  after  a  fashion  of  his  own,  blends 
Ovid's  Art  of  Love  with  the  Breviary.     The  poet,  wander- 


82  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

ing  about  in  a  forest,  wliile  suffering  under  tlic  smart  of 
Cupid's  dart,  meets  Venus,  the  Goddess  of  Love,  who  urges 
him,  as  one  upon  the  point  of  death,  to  make  his  full  con- 
fession to  her  clerk  or  priest,  the  holy  father  Genius.  This 
confession  hereupon  takes  place  by  means  of  question  and 
answer;  both  penitent  and  confessor  entering  at  great 
leno'th  into  an  examination  of  the  various  sins  and  weak- 
nesses  of  human  nature,  and  of  their  remedies,  and  illus- 
trating their  observations  by  narratives,  brief  or  elaborate, 
from  Holy  Writ,  sacred  legend,  ancient  history,  and  ro- 
mantic story.     Thus  Gower's  book,  as  he  says  at  its  close, 

.-"  stands  "  between  earnest  and  game,"  and  might  be  fairly 
described  as  a  Romaunt  of  the  Rose,  without  either  the 
descriptive  grace  of  Guillaume  de  Lorris,  or  the  wicked 
wit  of  Jean  de  Meung,  but  full  of  learning  and  matter,  and 
written  by  an  author  certainly  not  devoid  of  the  art  of  tell- 
ing stories.  The  mind  of  this  author  was  thoroughly  di- 
dactic in  its  bent ;  for  the  beauty  of  nature  he  has  no  real 
feeling ;  and  though  his  poem,  like  so  many  of  Chaucer's, 
begins  in  the  month  of  May,  he  is  (unnecessarily)  careful 
to  tell  us  that  his  object  in  going  forth  was  not  to  "  sing 
with  the  birds."  He  could  not,  like  Chaucer,  transfuse 
old  things  into  new,  but  there  is  enough  in  his  character 
as  a  poet  to  explain  the  friendship  between  the  pair,  of 
which  we  hear  at  the  very  time  when  Gower  was  probably 
preparing  his  Confessio  Amantis  for  publication. 

They  are  said  afterw^ards  to  have  become  enemies;  but 
in  the  absence  of  any  real  evidence  to  that  effect,  we  can- 
not believe  Chaucer  to  have  been  likely  to  quarrel  with 
one  whom  he  had  certainly  both  trusted  and  admired. 
Nor  had  literary  life  in  England  already  advanced  to  a 
stage  of  development  of  w^hich,  as  in  the  Elizabethan  and 

•    Augustan  ages,  literary  jealousy  was  an  indispensable  ac- 


n.]  .  GOWER.  83 

companiiiient.  Cliaucer  is  supposed  to  have  attacked 
Gower  in  a  passage  of  the  Canterbury  Tales,  where  he  in- 
cidentally declares  his  dislike  (in  itself  extremely  commend- 
able) of  a  particular  kind  of  sensational  stories,  instancing 
the  subject  of  one  of  the  numerous  tales  in  the  Confessio 
Amantis.  There  is,  however,  no  reason  whatever  for  sup- 
posing Chaucer  to  have  here  intended  a  reflection  on  his 
brother  poet,  more  especially  as  the  Man  of  Law,  after  ut- 
tering the  censure,  relates,  though  probably  not  from  Gow- 
er, a  story  on  a  subject  of  a  different  kind  likewise  treated 
by  him.  It  is  scarcely  more  suspicious  that  when  Gower, 
in  a  second  edition  of  his  chief  work,  dedicated  in  1393 
to  Henry,  Earl  of  Derby  (afterwards  Henry  IV.),  judicious- 
ly omitted  the  exordium  and  altered  the  close  of  the  first 
edition — both  of  which  were  complimentary  to  Richard  11. 
— he  left  out,  together  with  its  surrounding  context,  a  pas- 
sage conveying  a  friendly  challenge  to  Chaucer  as  a  "dis- 
ciple and  poet  of  the  God  of  Love." 

In  any  case  there  could  have  been  no  political  difference 
between  them,  for  Chaucer  was  at  all  times  in  favour  with 
the  House  of  Lancaster,  towards  whose  future  head  Gower 
so  early  contiived  to  assume  a  correct  attitude.  To  him 
— a  man  of  substance,  with  landed  property  in  three 
counties — the  rays  of  immediate  court-favour  were  prob- 
ably of  less  importance  than  to  Chaucer ;  but  it  is  not 
necessity  only  which  makes  courtiers  of  so  many  of  us : 
some  are  born  to  the  vocation,  and  Gower  strikes  one  as 
naturally  more  prudent  and  cautious  —  in  short,  more  of 
a  politic  personage  —  than  Chaucer.  He  survived  him 
eight  years — a  blind  invalid,  in  whose  mind  at  least  we 
may  hope  nothing  dimmed  or  blurred  the  recollection  of 
a  friend  to  whom  he  owes  much  of  his  fame. 

In  a  still  nearer  relationship — on  which  the  works  of 


84  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

Chaucer  that  may  certainly  or  probably  be  assigned  to  this 
period  throw  some  light — it  seems  impossible  to  describe 
him  as  having  been  fortunate.  Whatever  may  have  been 
the  date  and  circumstances  of  his  marriage,  it  seems,  at  all 
events  in  its  later  years,  not  to  have  been  a  happy  one. 
The  allusions  to  Chaucer's  personal  experience  of  married 
life  in  both  Troilus  and  Cressid  and  the  House  of  Fame 
are  not  of  a  kind  to  be  entirely  explicable  by  that  tenden- 
cy to  make  a  mock  of  women  and  of  marriage,  which  has 
frequently  been  characteristic  of  satirists,  and  which  was 
specially  popular  in  an  age  cherishing  the  wit  of  Jean  de 
Meung,  and  complacently  corroborating  its  theories  from 
naughty  Latin  fables,  French  fabliaux,  and  Italian  novelle. 
Both  in  Troilus  and  Cressid  and  in  the  House  of  Fame 
the  poet's  tone,  when  he  refers  to  himself,  is  generally  dol- 
orous; but  while  both  poems  contain  unmistakeable  ref- 
erences to  the  joylessness  of  his  own  married  life,  in  the 
latter  he  speaks  of  himself  as  "  suffering  debonairly  " — or, 
as  we  should  say,  putting  a  good  face  upon — a  state  "  des- 
perate of  all  bliss."  And  it  is  a  melancholy  though  half 
sarcastic  glimpse  into  his  domestic  privacy  which  he  inci- 
dentally, and  it  must  be  allowed  rather  unnecessarily,  gives 
in  the  following  passage  of  the  same  poem : — 

*'  'Awake !'  to  me  he  said, 
In  voice  and  tone  the  very  same 
That  tiseth  one  whom  I  cordd  name  ; 
And  with  that  voice,  sooth  to  say(n) 
My  mind  returned  to  me  again ; 
For  it  was  goodly  said  to  me ; 
So  was  it  never  wont  to  be." 

In  other  words,  the  kindness  of  the  voice  reassured  him 
that  it  was  not  the  same  as  that  which  he  was  wont  to 
hear  close  to  his  pillow !     Again,  the  entire  tone  of  the 


II.]  CHAUCER'S  MARRIAGE.  85 

Prologue  to  the  Legend  of  Good  Women  is  not  that  of  a 
happy  lover ;  although  it  would  be  pleasant  enough,  con- 
sidering that  the  lady  who  imposes  on  the  poet  the  penalty 
of  celebrating  good  women  is  Alcestis,  the  type  of  faithful 
wifehood,  to  interpret  the  poem  as  not  only  an  amende 
honorable  to  the  female  sex  in  general,  but  a  token  of  rec- 
onciliation to  the  poet's  wife  in  particular.  Even  in  the 
joyous  Assembly  of  Fowls,  a  marriage-poem,  the  same  dis- 
cord already  makes  itself  heard ;  for  it  cannot  be  without 
meaning  that  in  his  dream  the  poet  is  told  by  "  African  " — 

"...  Thou  of  love  hast  lost  thy  taste,  I  guess, 
As  sick  men  have  of  sweet  and  bitterness ;" 

and  that  he  confesses  for  himself  that,  though  he  has  read 
much  of  love,  he  knows  not  of  it  by  experience.  While, 
however,  we  reluctantly  accept  the  conclusion  that  Chau- 
cer was  unhappy  as  a  husband,  we  must  at  the  same  time 
decline,  because  the  husband  was  a  poet,  and  one  of  the 
most  genial  of  poets,  to  cast  all  the  blame  upon  the  wife, 
and  to  write  her  down  a  shrew.  It  is  unfortunate,  no  doubt, 
but  it  is  likewise  inevitable,  that  at  so  great  a  distance  of 
time  the  rights  and  wrongs  of  a  conjugal  disagreement  or 
estrangement  cannot  with  safety  be  adjusted.  Yet  again, 
because  we  refuse  to  blame  Philippa,  we  are  not  obliged 
to  blame  Chaucer.  At  the  same  time,  it  must  not  be  con- 
cealed that  his  name  occurs  in  the  year  1380  in  connexion 
with  a  legal  process,  of  which  the  most  obvious,  though 
not  the  only  possible,  explanation  is  that  he  had  been 
guilty  of  a  grave  infidelity  towards  his  wife.  Such  dis- 
coveries as  this  last  we  might  be  excused  for  wishing  un- 
made. 

Considerable  uncertainty  remains  with  regard  to   the 
dates  of  the  poems  belonging  to  this  seemingly,  in  all  re- 


86  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

spects  but  one,  fortunate  period  of  Chaucer's  life.  Of  one 
of  these  works,  however,  which  has  had  the  curious  fate 
to  be  dated  and  re-dated  by  a  succession  of  happy  conject- 
ures, the  last  and  happiest  of  all  may  be  held  to  have  de- 
finitively fixed  the  occasion.  This  is  the  charming  poem 
called  the  Assembly  of  Fowls,  or  Parliament  of  Birds — a 
production  which  seems  so  English,  so  fresh  from  nature's 
own  inspiration,  so  instinct  with  the  gaiety  of  Chaucer's 
own  heart,  that  one  is  apt  to  overlook  in  it  the  undeniable 
vestiges  of  foreign  influences,  both  French  and  Italian. 
At  its  close  the  poet  confesses  that  he  is  always  reading, 
and  therefore  hopes  that  he  may  at  last  read  something 
"  so  to  fare  the  better."  But  with  til  this  evidence  of 
study  the  Assembly  of  Fowls  is  chiefly  interesting  as  show- 
ing how  Chaucer  had  now  begun  to  select  as  well  as  to 
assimilate  his  loans ;  how,  while  he  was  still  moving  along 
well-known  tracks,  his  eyes  were  joyously  glancing  to  the 
right  and  the  left ;  and  how  the  source  of  most  of  his 
imagery,  at  all  events,  he  already  found  in  the  merry  Eng- 
land around  him,  even  as  he  had  chosen  for  his  subject 
one  of  real  national  interest. 

Anne  of  Bohemia,  daughter  of  the  great  Emperor 
Charles  IV.,  and  sister  of  King  Wenceslas,  had  been  suc- 
cessively betrothed  to  a  Bavarian  prince  and  to  a  Margrave 
of  Meissen,  before — after  negotiations  which,  according  to 
Froissart,  lasted  a  year — her  hand  was  given  to  the  young 
King  Richard  II.  of  England.  This  suflSciently  explains 
the  general  scope  of  the  Assembly  of  Fowls,  an  allegorical 
poem  written  on  or  about  St.  Valentine's  Day,  1381 — 
eleven  months,  or  nearly  a  year,  after  which  date  the  mar- 
riage took  place.  On  the  morning  sacred  to  lovers,  the 
poet  (in  a  dream,  of  course,  and  this  time  conducted  by 
the  arch-dreamer  Scipio  in  person)  enters  a  garden  con- 


II.]  THE  ASSEMBLY  OF  FOWLS.  87 

taming  in  it  the  temple  of  the  God  of  Love,  and  filled  with 
inhabitants  mythological  and  allegorical.  Here  he  sees 
the  noble  goddess  Nature,  seated  upon  a  hill  of  flowers,  and 
around  her  "  all  the  fowls  that  be,"  assembled  as  by  time- 
honoured  custom  on  St.  Valentine's  Day,  "  when  every 
fowl  comes  there  to  choose  her  mate."  Their  huge  noise 
and  hubbub  is  reduced  to  order  by  Nature,  who  assigns  to 
each  fowl  its  proper  place — the  birds  of  prey  highest ;  then 
those  that  eat  according:  to  natural  inclination — 

"  Worm  or  thing  of  which  I  tell  no  tale ;" 

then  those  that  live  by  seed ;  and  the  various  members  of 
the  several  classes  are  indicated  with  amusing  vivacity  and 
point,  from  the  royal  eagle  "  that  with  his  sharp  look 
pierceth  the  sun,"  and  "other  eagles  of  a  lower  kind" 
downwards.  We  can  only  find  room  for  a  portion  of  the 
company : — 

"  The  sparrow,  Venus'  son  ;  the  nightingale 
That  clepeth  forth  the  f reshe  leaves  new ; 
The  swallow,  murd'rer  of  the  bees  small, 
That  honey  make  of  flowers  fresh  of  hue ; 
The  wedded  turtle,  with  his  hearte  true ; 
The  peacock,  with  his  angels'  feathers  bright, 
The  pheasant,  scorner  of  the  cock  by  night. 

"  The  waker  goose,  the  cuckoo,  ever  unkind ; 
The  popinjay,  full  of  delicacy ; 
The  drake,  destroyer  of  his  owne  kind ; 
The  stork,  avenger  of  adultery ; 
The  cormorant,  hot  and  full  of  gluttony ; 
The  crows  and  ravens  with  their  voice  of  care ; 
And  the  throstle  old,  and  the  frosty  fieldfare." 

Naturalists  must  be  left  to  explain  some  of  these  epithets 
and  designations,  not  all  of  which  rest  on  allusions  as  easily 


88  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

understood  as  that  recalling  the  goose's  exploit  on  the 
Capitol ;  but  the  vivacity  of  the  whole  description  speaks 
for  itself.  One  is  reminded  of  Aristophanes'  feathered 
chorus ;  but  birds  are  naturally  the  delight  of  poets,  and 
were  befriended  by  Dante  himself. 

Hereupon  the  action  of  the  poem  opens.  A  female 
eagle  is  wooed  by  three  suitors  —  all  eagles;  but  among 
them  the  first,  or  royal  eagle,  discourses  in  the  manner 
most  likely  to  conciliate  favour.  Before  the  answer  is 
given,  a  pause  furnishes  an  opportunity  to  the  other  fowls 
for  delighting  in  the  sound  of  their  own  voices.  Dame 
Nature  proposing  that  each  class  of  birds  shall,  through 
the  beak  of  its  representative  "  agitator,"  express  its  opin- 
ion on  the  problem  before  the  assembly.  There  is  much 
humour  in  the  readiness  of  the  goose  to  rush  in  with  a 
ready-made  resolution,  and  in  the  smart  reproof  adminis- 
tered by  the  sparrow-hawk  amidst  the  uproar  of  "  the  gen- 
tle fowls  all."  At  last  Nature  silences  the  tumult,  and  the 
lady-eagle  delivers  her  answer,  to  the  effect  that  she  cannot 
make  up  her  mind  for  a  year  to  come ;  but  inasmuch  as 
Nature  has  advised  her  to  choose  the  royal  eagle,  his  is 
clearly  the  most  favourable  prospect.  Whereupon,  after 
certain  fowls  had  sung  a  roundel,  "  as  was  always  the 
usance,"  the  assembly,  like  some  human  Parliaments, 
breaks  up  with  shouting  ;^  and  the  dreamer  awakes  to  re- 
sume his  reading. 

Very  possibly  the  Assembly  of  Fowls  was  at  no  great 
interval  of  time  either  followed  or  preceded  by  two  poems 
of  far  inferior  interest — the  Complaint  of  Mars  (apparent- 
ly afterwards  amalgamated  with  that  of  Venus)^  which  is 

*  "  Than  all  the  birdis  song  with  sic  a  schout 
That  I  annone  awoik  quhair  that  I  lay." 

Dunbar,  The  Thrissill  and  the  Rois. 


II.]  TWO  MINOR  POEMS.  89 

supposed  to  be  sung  by  a  bird  on  St.  Valentine's  morn- 
ing, and  the  fragment  Of  Queen  Anelida  and  false  Arcite. 
There  are,  however,  reasons  which  make  a  less  early  date 
probable  in  the  case  of  the  latter  production,  the  history 
of  the  origin  and  purpose  of  which  can  hardly  be  said  as 
yet  to  be  removed  out  of  the  region  of  mere  speculation. 
In  any  case,  neither  of  these  poems  can  be  looked  upon  as 
preparations,  on  Chaucer's  part,  for  the  longer  work  on 
which  he  was  to  expend  so  much  labour ;  but  in  a  sense 
this  description  would  apply  to  the  translation  which, 
probably  before  he  wrote  Troilus  and  Cressid,  certainly 
before  he  wrote  the  Prologue  to  the  Legend  of  Good 
Women,  he  made  of  the  famous  Latin  work  of  Boethius, 
*'  the  just  man  in  prison,"  on  the  Consolation  of  Philoso- 
phy. This  book  was,  and  very  justly  so,  one  of  the  fa- 
vourite manuals  of  the  Middle  Ages,  and  a  treasure-house 
of  religious  wisdom  to  centuries  of  English  writers. 
"  Boice  of  Consolacioun  "  is  cited  in  the  Roinaunt  of  the 
Rose ;  and  the  list  of  passages  imitated  by  Chaucer  from 
the  martyr  of  Catholic  orthodoxy  and  Roman  freedom 
of  speech  is  exceedingly  long.  Among  them  are  the  ever- 
recurring  diatribe  against  the  fickleness  of  fortune,  and 
(through  the  medium  of  Dante)  the  reflection  on  the  dis- 
tinction between  gentle  birth  and  a  gentle  life.  Chaucer's 
translation  was  not  made  at  second-hand;  if  not  always 
easy,  it  is  conscientious,  and  interpolated  with  numerous 
glosses  and  explanations  thought  necessary  by  the  trans- 
lator. The  metre  of  The  Former  Life  he  at  one  time  or 
another  turned  into  verse  of  his  own. 

Perhaps  the  most  interesting  of  the  quotations  made  in 

Chaucer's  poems  from  Boethius  occurs  in  his  Troilus  and 

Cressid,  one  of  the  many  mediaeval  versions  of  an  episode 

engrafted  by  the  lively  fancy  of  an  Anglo-Norman  trouvere 

G    5  7 


90  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

upon  the  deathless,  and  in  its  literary  variations  incompar- 
ably luxuriant,  growth  of  the  story  of  Troy.     On  Benoit 
de  Sainte-Maure's  poem  Guido  de  Colonna  founded  his 
Latin -prose  romance;  and  this  again,  after  being  repro- 
duced in  languages  and  by  writers  almost  innumerable, 
served  Boccaccio  as  the  foundation  of  his  poem  Filostrato 
— i.  e.,  the  victim  of  love.     All  these  works,  together  with 
Chaucer's  Troilus  and  Cressid,  with  Lydgate's  Troy-Book, 
with  Henryson's  Testament  of  Cressid  (and  in  a  sense  even 
with  Shakspeare's  drama  on  the  theme  of  Chaucer's  poem), 
may  be  said  to  belong  to  the  second  cycle  of  modern  ver- 
sions of  the  tale  of  Troy  divine.     Already  their  earlier 
predecessors  had  gone  far  astray  from  Homer,  of  whom 
they  only  knew  by  hearsay,  relying  for  their  facts  on  late 
Latin  epitomes,  which  freely  mutilated  and  perverted  the 
Homeric  narrative  in  favour  of  the  Trojans — the  supposed 
ancestors  of  half  the  nations  of  Europe.     Accordingly, 
Chaucer,  in  a  well-known  passage  in  his  House  of  Fame, 
regrets,  with  sublime  coolness,  how  "  one  said  that  Homer  " 
wrote  "  lies," 

"  Feigning  in  his  poetries 
And  was  to  Greekes  favourable. 
Therefore  held  he  it  but  fable." 

But  the  courtly  poets  of  the  romantic  age  of  literature 
went  a  step  further,  and  added  a  mediaeval  colouring  all 
their  own.  One  converts  the  Sibyl  into  a  nun,  and  makes 
her  admonish  ^neas  to  tell  his  beads.  Another  —  it  is 
Chaucer's  successor  Lydgate — introduces  Priam's  sons  ex- 
ercising their  bodies  in  tournaments  and  their  minds  in  the 
glorious  play  of  chess,  and  causes  the  memory  of  Hector 
to  be  consecrated  by  the  foundation  of  a  chantry  of  priests 
who  are  to  pray  for  the  repose  of  his  soul.     A  third  final- 


II.]  TROILUS  AND  CRESSID.  91 

\j  condemns  the  erring  Cressid  to  be  stricken  with  lepro- 
sy, and  to  wander  about  with  cup  and  clapper,  like  the  un- 
happy lepers  in  the  great  cities  of  the  Middle  Ages.  Ev- 
erything, in  short,  is  transfused  by  the  spirit  of  the  adapt- 
ers' own  times ;  and  so  far  are  these  writers  from  any  weak- 
ly sense  of  anachronism  in  describing  Troy  as  if  it  were 
a  moated  and  turreted  city  of  the  later  Middle  Ages,  that 
they  are  only  careful  now  and  then  to  protest  their  own 
truthfulness  when  anything  in  their  narrative  seems  unlike 
the  days  in  which  they  write. 
I  But  Chaucer,  though  his  poem  is,  to  start  with,  only  an 
;  English  reproduction  of  an  Italian  version  of  a  Latin  trans- 
lation of  a  French  poem,  and  though  in  most  respects  it 
shares  the  characteristic  features  of  the  body  of  poetic  fic- 
tion to  which  it  belongs,  is  far  from  being  a  mere  trans- 
lator. Apart  from  several  remarkable  reminiscences  intro- 
duced by  Chaucer  from  Dante,  as  well  as  from  the  irre- 
pressible Bojnaimt  of  the  Rose,  he  has  changed  his  origi- 
nal in  points  which  are  not  mere  matters  of  detail  or  ques- 
tions of  convenience.  In  accordance  with  the  essentially 
dramatic  bent  of  his  own  genius,  some  of  these  changes 
have  reference  to  the  aspect  of  the  characters  and  the  con- 
duct of  the  plot,  as  well  as  to  the  whole  spirit  of  the  con- 
ception of  the  poem.  Cressid  (who,  by  the  way,  is  a  wid- 
ow at  the  outset — whether  she  had  children  or  not  Chau- 
cer nowhere  found  stated,  and  therefore  leaves  undecided) 
may  at  first  sight  strike  the  reader  as  a  less  consistent 
character  in  Chaucer  than  in  Boccaccio.  But  there  is  true 
art  in  the  way  in  which,  in  the  English  poem,  our  sympa- 
thy is  first  aroused  for  the  heroine,  whom,  in  the  end,  we 
cannot  but  condemn.  In  Boccaccio,  Cressid  is  fair  and 
false — one  of  those  fickle  creatures  with  whom  Italian  lit- 
erature, and  Boccaccio  in  particular,  so  largely  deal,  and 


/ 


92  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

\ 

(whose  presentment  merely  repeats  to  us  the  old  cynical 
half-truth  as  to  woman's  weakness.  The  English  poet, 
though  he  does  not  pretend  that  his  heroine  was  "relig- 
ious" (i.e.,  a  nun  to  whom  earthly  love  is  a  sin),  endears 
her  to  us  from  the  first ;  so  much  that  "  O  the  pity  of  it " 
seems  the  hardest  verdict  we  can  ultimately  pass  upon  her 
conduct.  How,  then,  is  the  catastrophe  of  the  action,  the 
falling  away  of  Cressid  from  her  truth  to  Troilus,  poetical- 
ly explained  ?  By  an  appeal — pedantically  put,  perhaps, 
and  as  it  were  dragged  in  violently  by  means  of  a  truncated 
quotation  from  Boethius — to  the  fundamental  difficulty 
concerning  the  relations  between  poor  human  life  and  the 
government  of  the  world.  This,  it  must  be  conceded,  is 
a  considerably  deeper  problem  than  the  nature  of  woman. 
Troilus  and  Cressid,  the  hero  sinned  against  and  the  sinning 
heroine,  are  the  victims  of  Fate.  Who  shall  cast  a  stone 
against  those  who  are,  but  like  the  rest  of  us,  predestined 
to  their  deeds  and  to  their  doom  ;  since  the  co-existence 
of  free-will  with  predestination  does  not  admit  of  proof? 
This  solution  of  the  conflict  may  be  morally  as  well  as 
theologically  unsound;  it  certainly  is  aesthetically  faulty; 
but  it  is  the  reverse  of  frivolous  or  commonplace. 

Or  let  us  turn  from  Cressid,  "matchless  in  beauty," 
and  warm  with  sweet  life,  but  not  ignoble  even  in  the  sea- 
son of  her  weakness,  to  another  personage  of  the  poem. 
In  itself  the  character  of  Pandarus  is  one  of  the  most  re- 
volting which  imagination  can  devise ;  so  much  so  that  the 
name  has  become  proverbial  for  the  most  despicable  of 
human  types.  With  Boccaccio  Pandarus  is  Cressid's  cous- 
in and  Troilus'  youthful  friend,  and  there  is  no  intention 
of  making  him  more  offensive  than  are  half  the  confidants 
of  amorous  heroes.  But  Chaucer  sees  his  dramatic  op- 
portunity ;  and  without  painting  black  in  black  and  creat- 


II.]  TROILUS  AND  CRESSID.  93 

ing  a  monster  of  vice,  he  invents  a  good-natured  and  lo- 
quacious elderly  go-between,  full  of  proverbial  philosophy 
and  invaluable  experience — a  genuine  light  comedy  char- 
acter for  all  times.  How  admirably  this  Pandarus  prac- 
tises as  well  as  preaches  his  art;  using  the  hospitable 
Deiphobus  and  the  queenly  Helen  as  unconscious  instru- 
ments in  his  intrigue  for  bringing  the  lovers  together : — 

"  She  came  to  dinner  in  her  plain  intent ; 
But  God  and  Pandar  wist  what  all  this  meant." 

Lastly,  considering  the  extreme  length  of  Chaucer's 
poem,  and  the  very  simple  plot  of  the  story  which  it  tells, 
one  cannot  fail  to  admire  the  skill  with  which  the  conduct 
of  its  action  is  managed.  In  Boccaccio  the  earlier  part  of 
the  story  is  treated  with  brevity,  while  the  conclusion,  af- 
ter the  catastrophe  has  occurred  and  the  main  interest  has 
passed,  is  long  drawn  out.  Chaucer  dwells  at  great  length 
upon  the  earlier  and  pleasing  portion  of  the  tale,  more 
especially  on  the  falling  in  love  of  Cressid,  which  is  work- 
ed out  with  admirable  naturalness.  But  he  comparatively 
hastens  over  its  pitiable  end  —  the  fifth  and  last  book  of 
his  poem  corresponding  to  not  less  than  four  cantos  of 
the  Filostrato.  In  Chaucer's  hands,  therefore,  the  story  is 
a  real  love-story ;  and  the  more  that  we  are  led  to  rejoice 
with  the  lovers  in  their  bliss,  the  more  our  compassion  is 
excited  by  the  lamentable  end  of  so  much  happiness ;  and 
we  feel  at  one  with  the  poet,  who,  after  lingering  over  the 
happiness  of  which  he  has  in  the  end  to  narrate  the  fall,  as 
it  were,  unwillingly  proceeds  to  accomplish  his  task,  and 
bids  his  readers  be  wroth  with  the  destiny  of  his  heroine 
rather  than  with  himself.  His  own  heart,  he  says,  bleeds 
and  his  pen  quakes  to  write  what  must  be  written  of  the 
falsehood  of  Cressid,  which  was  her  doom. 


94  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

Chaucer's  nature,  however  tried,  was  unmistakeably  one 
gifted  with  the  blessed  power  of  easy  self-recovery.  Though 
it  was  in  a  melancholy  vein  that  he  had  begun  to  write 
Troilus  and  Cressid,  he  had  found  opportunities  enough 
in  the  course  of  the  poem  for  giving  expression  to  the 
fresh  vivacity  and  playful  humour  which  are  justly  reckon- 
ed among  his  chief  characteristics.  And  thus,  towards  its 
close,  we  are  not  surprised  to  find  him  apparently  look- 
ing forward  to  a  sustained  effort  of  a  kind  more  conge- 
nial to  himself.  He  sends  forth  his  "  little  book,  his  lit- 
tle tragedy,"  with  the  prayer  that,  before  he  dies,  God, 
his  Maker,  may  send  him  might  to  "  make  some  comedy." 
If  the  poem  called  the  House  of  Fame  followed  upon 
Troilus  and  Cressid  (the  order  of  succession  may,  how- 
ever, have  been  the  reverse),  then,  although  the  poet's  own 
mood  had  little  altered,  yet  he  had  resolved  upon  essay- 
ing a  direction  which  he  rightly  felt  to  be  suitable  to  his 
genius. 

The  House  of  Fame  has  not  been  distinctly  traced  to 
any  one  foreign  source ;  but  the  influence  of  both  Pe- 
trarch and  Dante,  as  well  as  that  of  classical  authors,  are 
clearly  to  be  traced  in  the  poem.  And  yet  this  work, 
Chaucer's  most  ambitious  attempt  in  poetical  allegory,  may 
be  described  not  only  as  in  the  main  due  to  an  original 
conception,  but  as  representing  the  results  of  the  writer's 
personal  experience.  All  things  considered,  it  is  the  pro- 
duction of  a  man  of  wonderful  reading,  and  shows  that 
Chaucer's  was  a  mind  interested  in  the  widest  variety  of 
subjects,  which  drew  no  invidious  distinctions,  such  as  we 
moderns  are  prone  to  insist  upon,  between  Arts  and  Sci- 
ence, but  (notwithstanding  an  occasional  deprecatory  mod- 
esty) eagerly  sought  to  familiarise  itself  with  the  achieve- 
ments of  both.     In  a  passage  concerning  the  men  of  let- 


II.]  THE  HOUSE  OF  FAME.  95 

ters  who  had  found  a  place  in  the  House  of  Fame,  he  dis- 
plays not  only  an  acquaintance  with  the  names  of  several 
ancient  classics,  but  also  a  keen  appreciation — now  and  then, 
perhaps,  due  to  instinct — of  their  several  characteristics. 
Elsewhere  he  shows  his  interest  in  scientific  inquiry  by 
references  to  such  matters  as  the  theory  of  sound  and  the 
Arabic  system  of  numeration ;  while  the  Mentor  of  the 
poem,  the  Eagle,  openly  boasts  his  powers  of  clear  scien- 
tific demonstration,  in  averring  that  he  can  speak  "  lewd- 
ly" {i.  e.y  popularly)  "to  a  lewd  man."  The  poem  opens 
with  a  very  fresh  and  lively  discussion  of  the  question  of 
dreams  in  general — a  semi-scientific  subject  which  much 
occupied  Chaucer,  and  upon  which  even  Pandarus  and  the 
wedded  couple  of  the  NurCs  Priest^s  Tale  expend  their 
philosophy. 

Thus,  besides  giving  evidence  of  considerable  information 
and  study,  the  House  of  Fame  shows  Chaucer  to  have  been 
gifted  with  much  natural  humour.  Among  its  happy 
touches  are  the  various  rewards  bestowed  by  Fame  upon 
the  claimants  for  her  favour,  including  the  ready  grant 
of  evil  fame  to  those  who  desire  it  (a  bad  name,  to  speak 
colloquially,  is  to  be  had  for  the  asking) ;  and  the  won- 
derful paucity  of  those  who  wish  their  good  works  to  re- 
main in  obscurity  and  to  be  their  own  reward,  but  then 
Chaucer  was  writing  in  the  Middle  Ages.  And  as,  point- 
ing in  a  direction  which  the  author  of  the  poem  was  sub- 
sequently to  follow  out,  we  may  also  specially  notice  the 
company  thronging  the  House  of  Rumour:  shipmen  and 
pilgrims,  the  two  most  numerous  kinds  of  travellers  in 
Chaucer's  age,  fresh  from  seaport  and  sepulchre,  with  scrips 
brimful  of  unauthenticated  intelligence.  In  short,  this 
poem  offers  in  its  details  much  that  is  characteristic  of 
its  author's  genius ;  while,  as  a  whole,  its  abrupt  termina- 


96  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

tion  notwithstanding,  it  leaves  the  impression  of  complete- 
ness. The  allegory,  simple  and  clear  in  construction,  ful- 
fils the  purpose  for  which  it  was  devised ;  the  conceptions 
upon  which  it  is  based  are  neither  idle,  like  many  of  those 
in  Chaucer's  previous  allegories,  nor  are  they  so  artificial 
and  far-fetched  as  to  fatigue  instead  of  stimulating  the 
mind.  Pope,  who  reproduced  parts  of  the  House  of  Fame 
in  a  loose  paraphrase,  in  attempting  to  improve  the  con- 
struction of  Chaucer's  work,  only  mutilated  it.  As  it 
stands,  it  is  clear  and  digestible ;  and  how  many  allegories, 
one  may  take  leave  to  ask,  in  our  own  allegory-loving  liter- 
ature or  in  any  other,  merit  the  same  commendation  ?  For 
the  rest.  Pope's  own  immortal  Dunciad,  though  doubtless 
more  immediately  suggested  by  a  personal  satire  of  Dry- 
den's,  is  in  one  sense  a  kind  of  travesty  of  the  House  of 
Fame — a  House  of  Infamy. 

In  the  theme  of  this  poem  there  was  undoubtedly  some- 
thing that  could  hardly  fail  to  humour  the  half- melan- 
choly mood  in  which  it  was  manifestly  written.  Are  not, 
the  poet  could  not  but  ask  himself,  all  things  vanity — "  as 
men  say,  what  may  ever  last  ?"  Yet  the  subject  brought 
its  consolation  likewise.  Patient  labour,  such  as  this  poem 
attests,  is  the  surest  road  to  that  enduring  fame,  which  is 
"conserved  with  the  shade;"  and  awaking  from  his  vi- 
sion, Chaucer  takes  leave  of  the  reader  with  a  resolution 
already  habitual  to  him — to  read  more  and  more,  instead 
of  resting  satisfied  with  the  knowledge  he  has  already  ac- 
quired. And  in  the  last  of  the  longer  poems  which  seem 
assignable  to  this  period  of  his  life,  he  proves  that  one 
Latin  poet  at  least — Venus'  clerk,  whom  in  the  House  of 
Fame  he  beheld  standing  on  a  pillar  of  her  own  Cyprian 
metal — had  been  read  as  well  as  celebrated  by  him. 

Of  this  poem,  the  fragmentary  Legend  of  Good  Women, 


II.]  THE  LEGEND  OF  GOOD  WOMEN.  97 

the  Prologue  possesses  a  peculiar  biographical  as  well  as 
literary  interest.  In  his  personal  feelings  on  the  subject 
of  love  and  marriage,  Chaucer  had,  when  he  wrote  this 
Prologue,  evidently  almost  passed  even  beyond  the  sar- 
castic stage.  And  as  a  poet  he  was  now  clearly  conscious 
of  being  no  longer  a  beginner,  no  longer  a  learner  only, 
but  one  whom  his  age  knew,  and  in  whom  it  took  a  crit- 
ical interest.  The  list  including  most  of  his  undoubted 
works,  which  he  here  recites,  shows  of  itself  that  those 
already  spoken  of  in  the  foregoing  pages  were  by  this 
time  known  to  the  world,  together  with  two  of  the  Can^ 
terbury  Tales,  which  had  either  been  put  forth  indepen- 
dently, or  (as  seems  much  less  probable)  had  formed  the 
first  instalment  of  his  great  work.  A  further  proof  of  the 
relatively  late  date  of  this  Prologue  occurs  in  the  con- 
tingent offer  which  it  makes  of  the  poem  to  "  the  Queen," 
who  can  be  no  other  than  Richard  II.'s  young  consort 
Anne.  At  the  very  outset  we  find  Chaucer,  as  it  were, 
reviewing  his  own  literary  position — and  doing  so  in  the 
spirit  of  an  author  who  knows  very  well  what  is  said 
against  him,  who  knows  very  well  what  there  is  in  what 
is  said  against  him,  and  who  yet  is  full  of  that  true  self- 
consciousness  which  holds  to  its  course  —  not  recklessly 
and  ruthlessly,  not  with  a  contempt  for  the  feelings  and 
judgments  of  his  fellow-creatures,  but  with  a  serene  trust 
in  the  justification  ensured  to  every  honest  endeavour. 
The  principal  theme  of  his  poems  had  hitherto  been  the 
passion  of  love,  and  woman,  who  is  the  object  of  the  love 
of  man.  Had  he  not,  the  superfine  critics  of  his  day  may 
have  asked — steeped  as  they  were  in  the  artificiality  and 
florid  extravagance  of  chivalry  in  the  days  of  its  decline, 
and  habituated  to  mistranslating  earthly  passion  into  the 
phraseology  of  religious  devotion  —  had  he  not  debased 
5* 


98  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

the  passion  of  love,  and  defamed  its  object?  Ilad  he  not 
begun  by  translating  the  ^vicked  satire  of  Jean  de  Meung, 
"  a  heresy  against  the  law  "  of  Love  ?  and  had  he  not,  by 
cynically  painting  in  his  Cressid  a  picture  of  woman's 
perfidy,  encouraged  men  to  be  less  faithful  to  women 

"  That  be  as  true  as  ever  was  any  steel  ?" 

In  Chaucer's  way  of  meeting  this  charge,  which  he  em- 
phasises by  putting  it  in  the  mouth  of  the  God  of  Love 
himself,  it  is,  to  be  sure,  difficult  to  recognise  any  very 
deeply  penitent  spirit.  He  mildly  wards  off  the  reproach, 
sheltering  himself  behind  his  defender,  the  "  lady  in  green," 
who  afterwards  proves  to  be  herself  that  type  of  womanly 
and  wifely  fidelity  unto  death,  the  true  and  brave  Alcestis. 
And  even  in  the  body  of  the  poem  one  is  struck  by  a  cer- 
tain perfunctoriness,  not  to  say  flippancy,  in  the  way  in 
which  its  moral  is  reproduced.  The  wrathful  invective 
against  the  various  classical  followers  of  Lamech,  the 
maker  of  tents,^  wears  no  aspect  of  deep  moral  indigna- 
tion ;  and  it  is  not  precisely  the  voice  of  a  repentant  sin- 

'  Lamech,  Chaucer  tells  us  in  Queen  Annelida  and  the  false  Arcite, 

was  the 

"  First  father  that  began 

The  love  of  two,  and  was  in  bigamy." 

This  poem  seems  designed  to  illustrate  much  the  same  moral  as 
that  enforced  by  the  Legend  of  Oood  Women — a  moral  which,  by-the- 
bye,  is  already  foreshadowed  towards  the  close  of  Troilus  and  Ores- 
aid,  where  Chaucer  speaks  of 

"Women  that  betrayed  be 
Through  false  folk  (God  give  them  sorrow,  amen !), 
That  with  their  greate  wit  and  subtlety 
Betray  you ;  and  'tis  this  that  moveth  me 
To  speak ;  and,  in  effect,  you  all  I  pray : 
Beware  of  men,  and  hearken  what  I  say." 


II.]  THE  LEGEND  OF  GOOD  WOMEN.  99 

ner  wbicli  concludes  the  pathetic  story  of  the  betrayal  of 
Phillis  with  the  adjuration  to  ladies  in  general : — 

*'  Beware  ye  women  of  your  subtle  foe, 
Since  yet  this  day  men  may  example  see ; 
And  as  in  love  trust  ye  no  man  but  me." 

At  the  same  time  the  poet  lends  an  attentive  ear,  as  genius 
can  always  afford  to  do,  to  a  criticism  of  his  shortcom- 
ings, and  readily  accepts  the  sentence  pronounced  by  Al- 
cestis,  that  he  shall  write  a  legend  of  good  women,  both 
maidens  and  also  wives,  that  were 

"  True  in  loving  all  their  lives." 

And  thus,  with  the  courage  of  a  good  or,  at  all  events, 
easy  conscience,  he  sets  about  his  task  which  unfortunately 
— it  is  conjectured  by  reason  of  domestic  calamities,  prob- 
ably including  the  death  of  his  wife — remained,  or  at  least 
has  come  down  to  us  unfinished.  We  have  only  nine  of 
the  nineteen  stories  which  he  appears  to  have  intended  to 
present  (though,  indeed,  a  manuscript  of  Henry  IV.'s  reign 
quotes  Chaucer's  book  of  "  xxv  good  women  ").  It  is  by 
no  means  necessary  to  suppose  that  all  these  nine  stories 
were  written  continuously ;  maybe,  too,  Chaucer,  with  all 
his  virtuous  intentions,  grew  tired  of  his  rather  monoto- 
nous  scheme  at  a  time  when  he  was  beginning  to  busy 
himself  with  stories  meant  to  be  fitted  into  the  more  lib- 
eral framework  of  the  Canterbury  Tales.  All  these  illus- 
trations of  female  constancy  are  of  classical  origin,  as 
Chaucer  is  glad  to  make  known ;  and  most  of  them  are 
taken  from  Ovid.  But  though  the  thread  of  the  English 
poet's  narratives  is  supplied  by  such  established  favourites 
as  the  stories  of  Cleopatra,  the  Martyr  Queen  of  Egypt ; 
of  Thisbe  of  Babylon,  the  Martyr;  and  of  Dido,  to  whom 


100  CHAUCER.  [chap 

"^neas  was  forsworn,"  yet  he  by  no  means  slavishly  ad- 
heres to  his  authorities,  but  alters  or  omits  in  accordance 
with  the  design  of  his  book.  Thus,  for  instance,  we  read 
of  Medea's  desertion  by  Jason,  but  hear  nothing  of  her  as 
the  murderess  of  her  children ;  while,  on  the  other  hand, 
the  tragedy  of  Dido  is  enhanced  by  pathetic  additions  not 
to  be  found  in  Virgil.  Modem  taste  may  dislike  the  way 
in  which  this  poem  mixes  up  the  terms  and  ideas  of  Chris- 
tian martyrology  with  classical  myths,  and  as  "the  Le- 
gend of  the  Saints  of  Cupid"  assumes  the  character  of  a 
kind  of  calendar  of  women  canonised  by  reason  of  their 
faithfulness  to  earthly  love.  But  obviously  this  is  a 
method  of  treatment  belonging  to  an  age,  not  to  a  single 
poem  or  poet.  Chaucer's  artistic  judgment  in  the  selec- 
tion and  arrangement  of  his  themes,  the  wonderful  vivaci- 
ty and  true  pathos  with  which  he  turns  upon  Tarquin  or 
Jason  as  if  they  had  personally  offended  him,  and  his  gen- 
uine flow  of  feeling  not  only  for  but  with  his  unhappy 
heroines,  add  a  new  charm  to  the  old  familiar  faces.  Proof 
is  thus  furnished,  if  any  proof  were  needed,  that  no  story 
interesting  in  itself  is  too  old  to  admit  of  being  told  again 
by  a  poet;  in  Chaucer's  version  Ovid  loses  something  in 
polish,  but  nothing  in  pathos ;  and  the  breezy  freshness  of 
nature  seems  to  be  blowing  through  tales  which  became 
the  delight  of  a  nation's,  as  they  have  been  that  of  many 
a  man's,  youth. 

A  single  passage  must  suffice  to  illustrate  the  style  of 
the  Legend  of  Good  Women ;  and  it  shall  be  the  lament 
of  Ariadne,  the  concluding  passage  of  the  story  which  is 
the  typical  tale  of  desertion,  though  not,  as  it  remains  in 
Chaucer,  of  desertion  unconsoled.  It  will  be  seen  how  far 
the  English  poet's  vivacity  is  from  being  extinguished  by 
the  pathos  of  the  situation  described  by  him. 


n.]  THE  LEGEND  OF  GOOD  WOMEN.  101 

"  Eight  in  the  dawening  awaketh  she, 
And  gropeth  in  the  bed,  and  found  right  nought. 

'  Alas,'  quoth  she,  '  that  ever  I  was  wrought ! 
I  am  betrayed !'  and  her  hair  she  rent. 
And  to  the  strande  barefoot  fast  she  went, 
And  criede  :  *  Theseus,  mine  hearte  sweet ! 
Where  be  ye,  that  I  may  not  with  you  meet  ? 
And  mighte  thus  by  beastes  been  y-slain !' 
The  hollow  rockes  answered  her  again. 
No  man  she  sawe ;  and  yet  shone  the  moon, 
And  high  upon  a  rock  she  wente  soon, 
And  saw  his  barge  sailing  in  the  sea. 
Cold  waxed  her  heart,  and  right  thus  saide  she : 

'  Meeker  than  ye  I  find  the  beastes  wild !' 
(Hath  he  not  sin  that  he  her  thus  beguiled  ?) 
She  cried,  '  0  turn  again  for  ruth  and  sin, 
Thy  barge  hath  not  all  thy  meinie  in.' 
Her  kerchief  on  a  pole  stick^d  she^ 
Askance,  that  he  should  it  well  y-see, 
And  should  remember  that  she  was  behind, 
And  turn  again,  and  on  the  strand  her  find. 
But  all  for  naught ;  his  way  he  is  y-gone, 
And  down  she  fell  aswoone  on  a  stone ; 
And  up  she  rose,  and  kissed,  in  all  her  care, 
The  steppes  of  his  feet  remaining  there ; 
And  then  unto  her  bed  she  speaketh  so : 

'  Thou  bed,'  quoth  she, '  that  hast  received  two^ 
Thou  shalt  answer  for  two,  and  not  for  one; 
Where  is  the  greater  part  away  y-gone  ? 
Alas,  what  shall  I  wretched  wight  become  ? 
For  though  so  be  no  help  shall  hither  come, 
Home  to  my  country  dare  I  not  for  dread, 
I  can  myself  e  in  this  case  not  rede.' 
Why  should  I  tell  more  of  her  complaining  ? 
It  is  so  long  it  were  a  heavy  thing. 
In  her  Epistle  Naso  telleth  all. 
But  shortly  to  the  ende  tell  I  shall. 
The  goddes  have  her  holpen  for  pity, 
And  in  the  sign  of  Taurus  men  may  see 


102  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

The  stones  of  her  crown  all  shining  clear. 

I  will  no  further  speak  of  this  matter. 

But  thus  these  false  lovers  can  beguile 

Their  true  love ;  the  devil  quite  him  his  while  !" 

Manifestly,  then,  in  this  period  of  his  life — if  a  chronol- 
ogy which  is  in  a  great  measure  conjectural  may  be  ac- 
cepted— Chaucer  had  been  a  busy  worker,  and  his  pen  had 
covered  many  a  page  with  the  results  of  his  rapid  produc- 
tivity. Perhaps  his  ]Vo?'ds  unto  his  own  Scrivener,  which 
we  may  fairly  date  about  this  time,  were  rather  too  hard 
on  "Adam."  Authors  are  often  hard  on  persons  who 
have  to  read  their  handiwork  professionally ;  but,  in  the 
interest  of  posterity,  poets  may  be  permitted  an  execration 
or  two  against  whosoever  changes  their  words  as  well  as 
against  whosoever  moves  their  bones : — 

"  Adam  Scrivener,  if  ever  it  thee  befall 
Boece  or  Troihcs  to  write  anew, 
Under  thy  long  locks  ma)''st  thou  have  the  scall, 
If  thou  my  writing  copy  not  more  true ! 
So  oft  a  day  I  must  thy  work  renew, 
It  to  correct  and  eke  to  rub  and  scrape  ; 
And  all  is  through  thy  negligence  and  rape." 

How  far  the  manuscript  of  the  Canterbury  Tales  had 
already  progressed  is  uncertain ;  the  Prologue  to  the 
Legend  of  Good  Women  mentions  the  Love  of  Palamon 
and  Arcite  —  an  earlier  version  of  the  Knight'' s  Tale,  if 
not  identical  with  it — and  a  Life  of  Saint  Cecilia  which 
is  preserved,  apparently  without  alteration,  in  the  Second 
Nun^s  Tale.  Possibly  other  stories  had  been  already  add- 
ed to  these,  and  the  Prologue  written — but  this  is  more 
than  can  be  asserted  with  safety.  Who  shall  say  wheth- 
er, if  the  stream  of  prosperity  had  continued  to  flow,  on 
which  the  bark  of  Chaucer's  fortunes  had  for  some  years 


ir.]  CHAUCER'S  CIRCUMSTANCES.  103 

been  borne  alons;,  he  miorht  not  have  found  leisure  and  im- 
pulse  sufficient  for  completing  his  masterpiece,  or,  at  all 
events,  for  advancing  it  near  to  completion  ?  That  his  pow- 
ers declined  with  his  years,  is  a  conjecture  which  it  would 
be  difficult  to  support  by  satisfactory  evidence ;  though  it 
seems  natural  enough  to  assume  that  he  wrote  the  best  of 
his  Canterbury  Tales  in  his  best  days.  Troubled  times 
we  know  to  have  been  in  store  for  him.  The  reverse  in 
his  fortunes  may  perhaps  fail  to  call  forth  in  us  the  sym- 
pathy which  we  feel  for  Milton  in  his  old  age  doing  bat- 
tle against  a  Philistine  reaction,  or  for  Spenser,  over- 
whelmed with  calamities  at  the  end  of  a  life  full  of  bit- 
ter disappointment.  But  at  least  we  may  look  upon 
it  with  the  respectful  pity  which  we  entertain  for  Ben 
Jonson  groaning  in  the  midst  of  his  literary  honours 
under  that  dura  rerum  7iecessitas,  which  is  rarely  more 
a  matter  of  indifference  to  poets  than  it  is  to  other 
men. 

In  1386,  as  already  noted,  Chaucer,  while  continuing  to 
hold  both  his  offices  at  the  Customs,  had  taken  his  seat  in 
Parliament  as  one  of  the  knights  of  the  shire  of  Kent.  He 
had  attained  to  this  honour  during  the  absence  in  Spain 
of  his  patron,  the  Duke  of  Lancaster,  though  probably  he 
had  been  elected  in  the  interest  of  that  prince.  But 
John  of  Gaunt's  influence  was  inevitably  reduced  to  noth- 
ing during  his  absence,  and  no  doubt  King  Richard  now 
hoped  to  be  a  free  agent.  But  he  very  speedily  found 
that  the  hand  of  his  younger  uncle,  Thomas,  Duke  of 
Gloucester,  was  heavier  upon  him  than  that  of  the  elder. 
The  Parliament  of  which  Chaucer  was  a  member  was  the 
assembly  which  boldly  confronted  the  autocratical  ten- 
dencies of  Richard  IL,  and  after  overthrowing  the  Chan- 
cellor, Michael  de  la  Pole,  Earl  of  Suffolk,  forced  upon  the 


104  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

King  a  Council  controlling  the  administration  of  affairs. 
Concerning  the  acts  of  this  Council,  of  which  Gloucester 
was  the  leading  member,  little  or  nothing  is  known,  except 
that  in  financial  matters  it  attempted,  after  the  manner 
of  new  brooms,  to  sweep  clean.  Soon  the  attention  of 
Gloucester  and  his  following  was  occupied  by  subjects 
more  absorbing  than  a  branch  of  reform  fated  to  be  treated 
fitfully.  In  this  instance  the  new  administration  had  as 
usual  demanded  its  victims — and  among  their  number  was 
Chaucer ;  for  it  can  hardly  be  a  mere  coincidence  that  by 
the  beginning  of  December  in  this  year,  1386,  Chaucer  had 
lost  one,  and  by  the  middle  of  the  same  month  the  other, 
of  his  comptrollerships.  At  the  same  time,  it  would  be 
presumptuously  unfair  to  conclude  that  misconduct  of  any 
kind  on  his  part  had  been  the  reason  of  his  removal.  The 
explanation  usually  given  is  that  he  fell  as  an  adherent  of 
John  of  Gaunt :  perhaps  a  safer  way  of  putting  the  matter 
would  be  to  say  that  John  of  Gaunt  was  no  longer  in  Eng- 
land to  protect  him.  Inasmuch  as  even  reforming  Gov- 
ernments are  occasionally  as  anxious  about  men  as  they 
are  about  measures,  Chaucer's  posts  may  have  been  wanted 
for  nominees  of  the  Duke  of  Gloucester  and  his  Council 
— such  as  it  is  probably  no  injustice  to  Masters  Adam 
Yerdely  and  Henry  Gisors  (who  respectively  succeeded 
Chaucer  in  his  two  offices)  to  suppose  them  to  have  been. 
Moreover,  it  is  just  possible  that  Chaucer  was  the  reverse 
of  apersona  grata  to  Gloucester's  faction  on  account  of  the 
Comptroller's  previous  official  connexion  with  Sir  Nicholas 
Brembre,  who,  besides  being  hated  in  the  city,  had  been 
accused  of  seeking  to  compass  the  deaths  of  the  Duke  and 
of  some  of  his  adherents.  In  any  case,  it  is  noticeable 
that  four  months  before  the  return  to  England  of  the  Duke 
of  Lancaster — i.  e.,  in  July,  1389 — Chaucer  was  appointed 


II.]  CHAUCER'S  CIRCUMSTANCES.  IOC 

Clerk  of  the  King's  Works  at  Westminster,  the  Tower, 
and  a  large  number  of  other  royal  manors  or  tenements, 
including  (from  1390,  at  all  events)  St.  George's  Chapel, 
Windsor.  In  this  office  he  was  not  ill-paid,  receiving  two 
shillings  a  day  in  money,  and  very  possibly  perquisites  in 
addition,  besides  being  allowed  to  appoint  a  deputy.  In- 
asmuch as,  in  the  summer  of  the  year  1389,  King  Richard 
had  assumed  the  reins  of  government  in  person,  while  the 
ascendency  of  Gloucester  was  drawing  to  a  close,  we  may 
conclude  the  King  to  have  been  personally  desirous  to 
provide  for  a  faithful  and  attached  servant  of  his  house, 
for  whom  he  had  had  reason  to  feel  a  personal  liking.  It 
would  be  specially  pleasing,  were  we  able  to  connect  with 
Chaucer's  restoration  to  official  employment  the  high- 
minded  Queen  Anne,  whose  impending  betrothal  he  had 
probably  celebrated  in  one  poem,  and  whose  patronage  he 
had  claimed  for  another. 

The  Clerkship  of  the  King's  Works,  to  which  Chaucer 
was  appointed,  seems  to  have  been  but  a  temporary  office ; 
or  at  all  events  he  only  held  it  for  rather  less  than  two 
years,  during  part  of  which  he  performed  its  duties  by 
deputy.  Already,  however,  before  his  appointment  to  this 
post,  he  had  certainly  become  involved  in  difficulties; 
for  in  May,  1388,  we  find  his  pensions,  at  his  own  request, 
assigned  to  another  person  (John  Scalby)  —  a  statement 
implying  that  he  had  raised  money  on  them  which  he 
could  only  pay  by  making  over  the  pensions  themselves. 
Very  possibly,  too,  he  had,  before  his  dismissal  from  his 
comptrollerships,  been  subjected  to  an  enquiry  which,  if  it 
did  not  touch  his  honour,  at  all  events  gave  rise  to  very 
natural  apprehensions  on  the  part  of  himself  and  his  friends. 
There  is,  accordingly,  much  probability  in  the  conjecture 
which  ascribes  to  this  season  of  peril  and  pressure  the 


106  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

composition  of  the  following  justly  famous  stanzas,  entitled 
Good  Counsel  of  Chaucer : — 

"  Flee  from  the  press,  and  dwell  with  soothf astness ; 
Suffice  thee  thy  good,  though  it  be  small ; 
For  hoard  hath  hate,  and  climbing  tickleness : 
Press  hath  envy,  and  wealth  is  blinded  all. 
Savour  no  more  than  thee  behove  shall ; 
Do  well  thyself  that  other  folk  canst  rede ; 
And  truth  thee  shall  deliver,  it  is  no  dread. 

"  Paine  thee  not  each  crooked  to  redress 
In  trust  of  her*  that  turneth  as  a  ball. 
Greate  rest  stands  in  little  business. 
Beware  also  to  spurn  against  a  nail. 
Strive  not  as  doth  a  pitcher  with  a  wall. 
Deeme  thyself  that  deemest  others'  deed ; 
And  truth  thee  shall  dehver,  it  is  no  dread. 

"  That  thee  is  sent  receive  in  buxomness ; 
The  wrestling  of  this  world  asketh  a  fall. 
Here  is  no  home,  here  is  but  wilderness. 
Forth,  pilgrime  !  forth,  beast,  out  of  thy  stall ! 
Look  up  on  high,  and  thanke  God  of  all. 
Waive  thy  lust,  and  let  thy  ghost  thee  lead, 
And  truth  shall  thee  deliver,  it  is  no  dread." 

Misfortunes,  it  is  said,  never  come  alone ;  and  whatever 
view  may  be  taken  as  to  the  nature  of  the  relations  be- 
tween Chaucer  and  his  wife,  her  death  cannot  have  left 
him  untouched.  From  the  absence  of  any  record  as  to 
the  payment  of  her  pension  after  June,  1387,  this  event 
is  presumed  to  have  taken  place  in  the  latter  half  of  that 
year.  More  than  this  cannot  safely  be  conjectured ;  but 
it  remains  possible  that  the  Legend  of  Good  Women  and 
its  Prologue  formed  a  peace-offering  to  one  whom  Chau- 
cer may  have  loved  again  after  he  had  lost  her,  though 

*  Fortune. 


u.]  ON  THE  ASTROLABE.  107 

without  thinking  of  her  as  of  his  "late  departed  saint." 
Philippa  Chaucer  had  left  behind  her  a  son  of  the  name 
of  Lewis;  and  it  is  pleasing  to  find  the  widower  in  the 
year  1391  (the  year  in  which  he  lost  his  Clerkship  of  the 
Works)  attending  to  the  boy's  education,  and  supplying 
him  with  the  intellectual  "  bread  and  milk "  suitable  for 
his  tender  age  in  the  shape  of  a  popular  treatise  on  a  sub- 
ject which  has  at  all  times  excited  the  intelligent  curiosity 
of  the  young.  The  treatise  On  the  Astrolabe,  after  de- 
scribing the  instrument  itself,  and  showing  how  to  work 
it,  proceeded,  or  was  intended  to  proceed,  to  fulfil  the  pur- 
poses of  a  genera!  astronomical  manual ;  but,  like  other 
and  more  important  works  of  its  author,  it  has  come  down 
to  us  in  an  uncompleted,  or  at  all  events  incomplete,  con- 
dition. What  there  is  of  it  was,  as  a  matter  of  course,  not 
original  —  popular  scientific  books  rarely  are.  The  little 
treatise,  however,  possesses  a  double  interest  for  the  student 
of  Chaucer.  In  the  first  place,  it  shows  explicitly,  what 
several  passages  imply,  that  while  he  was  to  a  certain  extent 
fond  of  astronomical  study  (as  to  his  capacity  for  which 
he  clearly  does  injustice  to  himself  in  the  House  of  Fame), 
his  good  sense  and  his  piety  alike  revolted  against  extrav- 
agant astrological  speculations.  He  certainly  does  not 
wish  to  go  as  far  as  the  honest  carpenter  in  the  Mille?'^s 
Tale,  who  glories  in  his  incredulity  of  aught  besides  his 
credo,  and  who  yet  is  afterwards  befooled  by  the  very  im- 
postor of  whose  astrological  pursuits  he  had  reprehended 
the  impiety.  "  Men,"  he  says,  "  should  know  nothing  of 
that  which  is  private  to  God.  Yea,  blessed  be  alway  a 
simple  man  who  knows  nothing  but  only  his  belief."  In 
his  little  work  On  the  Astrolabe  Chaucer  speaks  with  calm 
reasonableness  of  superstitions  in  which  his  spirit  has  no 
faith,  and  pleads  guilty  to  ignorance  of  the  useless  knowl- 


108  CHAUCER.  [chaj». 

edge  with  which  they  are  surrounded.  But  the  other,  and 
perhaps  the  chief  value,  to  us  of  this  treatise  lies  in  the 
fact  that  of  Chaucer  in  an  intimate  personal  relation  it 
contains  the  only  picture  in  which  it  is  impossible  to  sus- 
pect any  false  or  exaggerated  colouring.  For  here  we  have 
him  writing  to  his  "  little  Lewis  "  with  fatherly  satisfaction 
in  the  ability  displayed  by  the  boy  "to  learn  sciences 
touching  numbers  and  proportions,'*  and  telling  how,  after 
making  a  present  to  the  child  of  "  a  sufficient  astrolabe  as 
for  our  own  horizon,  composed  after  the  latitude  of  Ox- 
ford," he  has  further  resolved  to  explain  to  him  a  certain 
number  of  conclusions  connected  with  the  purposes  of  the 
instrument.  This  he  has  made  up  his  mind  to  do  in  a 
forcible  as  well  as  simple  way ;  for  he  has  shrewdly  di- 
vined a  secret,  now  and  then  overlooked  by  those  who 
condense  sciences  for  babes,  that  children  need  to  be  taught 
a  few  things  not  only  clearly  but  fully — repetition  being  in 
more  senses  than  one  "  the  mother  of  studies :" — 

"Now  will  I  pray  meekly  every  discreet  person  that  readeth  or 
heareth  this  little  treatise,  to  hold  my  rude  inditing  excused,  and  my 
superfluity  of  words,  for  two  causes.  The  first  cause  is :  that  curious 
inditing  and  hard  sentences  are  full  heavy  at  once  for  such  a  child 
to  learn.  And  the  second  cause  is  this :  that  truly  it  seems  better 
to  me  to  write  unto  a  child  twice  a  good  sentence  than  to  forget  it 


once."* 


Unluckily  we  know  nothing  further  of  Lewis  —  not  even 
whether,  as  has  been  surmised,  he  died  before  he  had  been 
able  to  turn  to  lucrative  account  his  calculating  powers, 
after  the  fashion  of  his  apocryphal  brother  Thomas  or 
otherwise. 

Though  by  the  latter  part  of  the  year  1391  Chaucer  had 
lost  his  Clerkship  of  the  Works,  certain  payments  (possibly 
of  arrears)  seem  afterwards  to  have  been  made  to  him  in 


n.]  CHAUCER  AND  THE  COURT.  109 

connexion  witti  the  office.  A  very  disagreeable  incident 
of  his  tenure  of  it  had  been  a  double  robbery  from  his 
person  of  official  money,  to  the  very  serious  extent  of 
twenty  pounds.  The  perpetrators  of  the  crime  were  a 
notorious  gang  of  highwaymen,  by  whom  Chaucer  was,  in 
September,  1390,  apparently  on  the  same  day,  beset  both 
at  Westminster  and  near  to  "  the  foul  Oak  "  at  Hatcham, 
in  Surrey.  A  few  months  afterwards  he  was  discharged 
by  writ  from  repayment  of  the  loss  to  the  Crown.  His 
experiences  during  the  three  years  following  are  unknown ; 
but  in  1394  (when  things  were  fairly  quiet  in  England) 
he  was  granted  an  annual  pension  of  twenty  pounds  by 
the  King.  This  pension,  of  which  several  subsequent 
notices  occur,  seems  at  times  to  have  been  paid  tardily  or 
in  small  instalments,  and  also  to  have  been  frequently  an- 
ticipated by  Chaucer  in  the  shape  of  loans  of  small  sums. 
Further  evidence  of  his  straits  is  to  be  found  in  his  hav- 
ing, in  the  year  1398,  obtained  letters  of  protection  against 
arrest,  making  him  safe  for  two  years.  The  grant  of  a  tun 
of  wine  in  October  of  the  same  year  is  the  last  favour 
known  to  have  been  extended  to  Chaucer  by  King  Rich- 
ard II.  Probabl}'^  no  English  sovereign  has  been  more  di- 
versely estimated,  both  by  his  contemporaries  and  by  pos- 
terity, than  this  ill-fated  prince,  in  the  records  of  whose 
career  many  passages  betokening  high  spirit  strangely  con- 
trast with  the  impotence  of  its  close.  It  will  at  kast  be 
remembered  in  his  favour  that  he  was  a  patron  of  the 
arts;  and  that  after  Froissart  had  been  present  at  his 
christening,  he  received,  when  on  the  threshold  of  man- 
hood, the  homage  of  Gower,  and  on  the  eve  of  his  down- 
fall showed  most  seasonable  kindness  to  a  poet  far  greater 
than  either  of  these.  It  seems  scarcely  justifiable  to  as- 
sign to  any  particular  point  of  time  the  Ballade  sent  to 


110  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

King  Richard  by  Chaucer ;  but  its  manifest  intention  was 
to  apprise  tbe  King  of  the  poet's  sympathy  with  his  strug- 
gle against  the  opponents  of  the  royal  policy,  which  was 
a  thoroughly  autocratical  one.  Considering  the  nature  of 
the  relations  between  the  pair,  nothing  could  be  more  un- 
likely than  that  Chaucer  should  have  taken  upon  himself 
to  exhort  his  sovereign  and  patron  to  steadfastness  of  po- 
litical conduct.  And  in  truth,  though  the  loyal  tone  of 
this  address  is  (as  already  observed)  unmistakeable  enough, 
there  is  little  difficulty  in  accounting  for  the  mixture  of 
commonplace  reflexions  and  of  admonitions  to  the  King, 
to  persist  in  a  spirited  domestic  policy.     He  is  to 

"  Dread  God,  do  law,  love  truth  and  worthiness," 

and  wed  his  people  —  not  himself — "again  to  steadfast- 
ness." However,  even  a  quasi -political  poem  of  this  de- 
scription, whatever  element  of  implied  flattery  it  may  con- 
tain, offers  pleasanter  reading  than  those  least  attractive 
of  all  occasional  poems,  of  whicb  the  burden  is  a  cry  for 
money.  The  Envoy  to  Scogan  has  been  diversely  dated 
and  diversely  interpreted.  The  reference  in  these  lines  to 
a  deluge  of  pestilence  clearly  means,  not  a  pestilence  pro- 
duced by  heavy  rains,  but  heavy  rains  which  might  be  ex- 
pected to  produce  a  pestilence.  The  primary  purpose  of 
the  epistle  admits  of  no  doubt,  though  it  is  only  revealed 
in  the  postscript.  After  bantering  his  friend  on  account 
of  his  faint-heartedness  in  love — 

*'  Because  thy  lady  saw  not  thy  distress, 
Therefore  thou  gavest  her  up  at  Michaelmas — " 

Chaucer  ends  by  entreating  him  to  further  his  claims  upon 
the  royal  munificence.  Of  this  friend,  Henry  Scogan,  a 
tradition  repeated  by  Ben  Jonson  averred  that  he  was  a 


II.]  LINES  TO  SCOGAN.  Ill 

fine  gentleman  and  Master  of  Arts  of  Henry  IV.'s  time, 
who  was  regarded  and  rewarded  for  his  Court  "disguis- 
ings  "  and  "  writings  in  ballad-royal."  He  is,  therefore,  ap- 
propriately apostrophised  by  Chaucer  as  kneeling 

"...  At  the  streames  head 
Of  grace,  of  all  honour  and  worthiness," 

and  reminded  that  his  friend  is  at  the  other  end  of  the 
current.  The  weariness  of  tone,  natural  under  the  circum- 
stances, obscures  whatever  humour  the  poem  possesses. 

Very  possibly  the  lines  to  Scogan  were  written  not  be- 
fore, but  immediately  after,  the  accession  of  Henry  IV. 
In  that  case  they  belong  to  about  the  same  date  as  the 
well-known  and  very  plain-spoken  Comj^laint  of  Chaucer  to 
his  Purse,  addressed  by  him  to  the  new  Sovereign  without 
loss  of  time,  if  not  indeed,  as  it  would  be  hardly  unchari- 
table to  suppose,  prepared  beforehand.  Even  in  this  Com- 
plaint (the  term  was  a  technical  one  for  an  elegiac  piece, 
and  was  so  used  by  Spenser)  there  is  a  certain  frank  ge- 
niality of  tone,  the  natural  accompaniment  of  an  easy 
conscience,  which  goes  some  way  to  redeem  the  nature  of 
the  subject.  Still,  the  theme  remains  one  which  only  an 
exceptionally  skilful  treatment  can  make  sufficiently  pa- 
thetic or  perfectly  comic.  The  lines  had  the  desired  ef- 
fect; for  within  four  days  after  his  accession  —  i.e., on 
October  3rd,  1399  —  the  "conqueror  of  Brut's  Albion," 
otherwise  King  Henry  IV.,  doubled  Chaucer's  pension  of 
twenty  marks,  so  that,  continuing  as  he  did  to  enjoy  the 
annuity  of  twenty  pounds  granted  him  by  King  Richard, 
he  was  now  once  more  in  comfortable  circumstances.  The 
best  proof  of  these  lies  in  the  fact  that  very  speedily — 
on  Christmas  Eve,  1399  —  Chaucer,  probably  in  a  rather 
sanguine  mood,  covenanted  for  the  lease  for  fifty -three 


112  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

years  of  a  house  in  the  garden  of  the  chapel  of  St.  Mary 
at  Westminster.  And  here,  in  comfort  and  in  peace,  as 
there  seems  every  reason  to  believe,  he  died  before  another 
year,  and  with  it  the  century,  had  quite  run  out — on  Oc- 
tober 25th,  1400. 

Our  fancy  may  readily  picture  to  itself  the  last  days  of 
Geoffrey  Chaucer,  and  the  ray  of  autumn  sunshine  which 
gilded  his  reverend  head  before  it  was  bowed  in  death. 
His  old  patron's  more  fortunate  son,  whose  earlier  chiv- 
alrous days  we  are  apt  to  overlook  in  thinking  of  him  as 
a  politic  king  and  the  sagacious  founder  of  a  dynasty,  can- 
not have  been  indifferent  to  the  welfare  of  a  subject  for 
whose  needs  he  had  provided  with  so  prompt  a  liberality. 
In  the  vicinity  of  a  throne  the  smiles  of  royalty  are  wont 
to  be  contagious — and  probably  many  a  courtier  thought 
well  to  seek  the  company  of  one  who,  so  far  as  we  know, 
had  never  forfeited  the  good-will  of  any  patron  or  the 
attachment  of  any  friend.  We  may,  too,  imagine  him  vis- 
ited by  associates  who  loved  and  honoured  the  poet  as 
well  as  the  man — by  Gower,  blind,  or  nearly  so,  if  tradition 
speak  the  truth,  and  who,  having  "  long  had  sickness  upon 
hand,"  seems,  unlike  Chaucer,  to  have  been  ministered  to 
in  his  old  age  by  a  housewife  whom  he  had  taken  to  him- 
self in  contradiction  of  principles  preached  by  both  the 
poets  ;  and  by  "  Bukton,"  converted,  perchance,  by  means 
of  Chaucer's  gift  to  him  of  the  Wife  of  BatJi's  Tale,  to  a 
resolution  of  perpetual  bachelorhood,  but  otherwise,  as  Mr. 
Carlyle  would  say,  "  dim  to  us."  Besides  these,  if  be  was 
still  among  the  living,  the  philosophical  Strode  in  his  Do- 
minican habit,  on  a  visit  to  London  from  one  of  his  monas- 
teries ;  or — more  probably — the  youthful  Lydgate,  not  yet 
a  Benedictine  monk,  but  pausing,  on  his  return  from  his 
travels  in  divers  lands,  to  sit  awhile,  as  it  were,  at  the  feet 


II.]  CHAUCER'S  FRIENDS.  113 

of  the  master  in  whose  poetic  example  he  took  pride ;  the 
courtly  Scogan  ;  and  Occleve,  already  learned,  who  was  to 
cherish  the  memory  of  Chaucer's  outward  features  as  well 
as  of  his  fruitful  intellect:  all  these  may  in  his  closing 
days  have  gathered  around  their  friend ;  and  perhaps  one 
or  the  other  may  have  been  present  to  close  the  watchful 
eyes  for  ever. 

But  there  was  yet  another  company  with  which,  in 
these  last  years,  and  perhaps  in  these  last  days  of  his  life, 
Chaucer  had  intercourse,  of  which  he  can  rarely  have  lost 
sight,  and  which  even  in  solitude  he  must  have  had  con- 
stantly with  him.  This  company  has  since  been  well 
known  to  generations  and  centuries  of  Englishmen.  Its 
members  head  that  goodly  procession  of  figures  which 
have  been  familiar  to  our  fathers  as  live-long  friends,  which 
are  the  same  to  us,  and  will  be  to  our  children  after  us — 
the  procession  of  the  nation's  favourites  among  the  char- 
acters created  by  our  great  dramatists  and  novelists,  the 
eternal  types  of  human  nature  which  nothing  can  efface 
from  our  imagination.  Or  is  there  less  reality  about  the 
Knight  in  his  short  cassock  and  old-fashioned  armour 
and  the  Wife  of  Bath  in  hat  and  wimple,  than  —  for  in- 
stance—  about  Uncle  Toby  and  the  Widow  Wadman? 
Can  we  not  hear  Madame  Eglantine  lisping  her  "  Strat- 
f ord-atte-Bowe "  French  as  if  she  were  a  personage  in  a 
comedy  by  Congreve  or  Sheridan  ?  Is  not  the  Summoner, 
with  his  "fire-red  cherubim's  face,"  a  worthy  companion, 
for  Lieutenant  Bardolph  himself?  And  have  not  the 
humble  Parson  and  his  Brother  the  Ploughman  that  ir- 
resistible pathos  which  Dickens  could  find  in  the  simple 
and  the  poor?  All  these  figures,  with  those  of  their  fel- 
low-pilgrims, are  to  us  living  men  and  women ;  and  in  their 
midst  the  poet  who  created  them  lives,  as  he  has  painted 
6 


114  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

himself  among  the  company,  not  less  faithfully  than  Oc- 
cleve  depicted  him  from  memory  after  death. 

How  long  Chaucer  had  been  engaged  upon  the  Canter- 
hury  Tales  it  is  impossible  to  decide.  No  process  is  more 
hazardous  than  that  of  distributing  a  poet's  works  among 
the  several  periods  of  his  life  according  to  divisions  of  spe- 
cies— placing  his  tragedies  or  serious  stories  in  one  sea- 
son, his  comedies  or  lighter  tales  in  another,  and  so  forth. 
Chaucer  no  more  admits  of  such  treatment  than  Shak- 
speare  ;  nor,  because  there  happens  to  be  in  his  case  little 
actual  evidence  bv  which  to  control  or  contradict  it,  are 
we  justified  in  subjecting  him  to  it.  All  we  know  is  that 
he  left  his  great  work  a  fragment,  and  that  we  have  no 
mention  in  any  of  his  other  poems  of  more  than  three 
of  the  Tales — two,  as  already  noticed,  being  mentioned  in 
the  Proloixue  to  the  Leofend  of  Good  Women,  written  at  a 
time  when  they  had  perhaps  not  yet  assumed  the  form  in 
which  they  are  preserved,  while  to  the  third  (the  Wife  of 
Bath)  reference  is  made  in  the  Envoi  to  Bukton,  the  date 
of  which  is  quite  uncertain.  At  the  same  time,  the  labour 
which  was  expended  upon  the  Canterbury  Tales  by  their 
author  manifestly  obliges  us  to  conclude  that  their  compo- 
sition occupied  several  years,  with  inevitable  interruptions ; 
while  the  gaiety  and  brightness  of  many  of  the  stories, 
and  the  exuberant  humour  and  exquisite  pathos  of  oth- 
ers, as  well  as  the  masterly  effectiveness  of  the  Prologue^ 
make  it  almost  certain  that  these  parts  of  the  work  were 
written  when  Chaucer  was  not  only  capable  of  doing  his 
best,  but  also  in  a  situation  whicb  admitted  of  his  doing 
it.  The  supposition  is,  therefore,  a  very  probable  one,  that 
the  main  period  of  their  composition  may  have  extended 
over  the  last  eleven  or  twelve  years  of  his  life,  and  have 
begun  about  the  time  when  he  was  again  placed  above 


n.]  THE  CANTERBURY  TALES,  115 

want  by  his  appointment  to  the  Clerkship  of  the  Royal 
Works. 

Again,  it  is  virtually  certain  that  the  poem  of  the  Can- 
terbury Tales  was  left  in  an  unfinished  and  partially  un- 
connected condition,  and  it  is  altogether  uncertain  whether 
Chaucer  had  finally  determined  upon  maintaining  or  mod- 
ifying the  scheme  originally  indicated  by  him  in  the  Pro- 
logue. There  can,  accordingly,  be  no  necessity  for  work- 
ing out  a  scheme  into  which  everything  that  he  has  left 
belonging  to  the  Canterbury  Tales  may  most  easily  and 
appropriately  fit.  Yet  the  labour  is  by  no  means  lost  of 
such  inquiries  as  those  which^have,  with  singular  zeal,  been 
prosecuted  concerning  the  several  problems  that  have  to 
be  solved  before  such  a  scheme  can  be  completed.  With- 
out a  review  of  the  evidence  it  would,  however,  be  prepos- 
terous to  pronounce  on  the  proper  answer  to  be  given  to 
the  questions :  what  were  the  number  of  tales  and  that  of 
tellers  ultimately  designed  by  Chaucer ;  what  was  the  or- 
der in  which  he  intended  the  Tales  actually  written  by 
him  to  stand ;  and  what  was  the  plan  of  the  journey  of 
his  pilgrims,  as  to  the  localities  of  its  stages  and  as  to  the 
time  occupied  by  it — whether  one  day  for  the  fifty-six 
miles  from  London  to  Canterbury  (which  is  by  no  means 
impossible),  or  two  days  (which  seems  more  likely),  or 
four.  The  route  of  the  pilgrimage  must  have  been  one  in 
parts  of  which  it  is  pleasant  even  now  to  dally,  when  the 
sweet  spring  flowers  are  in  bloom  which  Mr.  Boughton  has 
painted  for  lovers  of  the  poetry  of  English  landscape. 

There  are  one  or  two  other  points  which  should  not 
be  overlooked  in  considering  the  Canterbury  Tales  as  a 
whole.  It  has  sometimes  been  assumed  as  a  matter  of 
course  that  the  plan  of  the  work  was  borrowed  from  Boc- 
caccio.    If  this  means  that  Chaucer  owed  to  the  Decam- 


116  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

erone  the  idea  of  including  a  number  of  stories  in  the 
framework  of  a  single  narrative,  it  implies  too  much.     For 
this   notion,  a  familiar  one  in  the  East,  had  long  been 
known  to  Western  Europe  by  the  numerous  versions  of 
the  terribly  ingenious  story  of  the  Seven  Wise  Masters  (in 
the  progress  of  which  the  unexpected  never  happens),  as 
/well  as  by  similar  collections  of  the  same  kind.     And  the 
/special  connexion  of  this  device  with  a  company  of  pil- 
j  grims  might,  as  has  been  well  remarked,  have  been  sug- 
I  gested  to  Chaucer  by  an  English  book  certainly  withiii_ 
bis  ken,  the  Vision  concerning  Piers  Ploimrian,  where,  in 
,  the  "  fair  field  full  of  folk,"  are  assembled,  among  others, 
*'  pilgrims  and  palmers  who  went  forth  on  their  way  "  to 
St.  James  of  Compostella  and  to  saints  at  Rome  "  with 
Unany  wise  tales'''^ — ("and  had  leave  to  lie  all  their  life  af- 
Uer  ").     But  even  had  Chaucer  owed  the  idea  of  his  plan 
to  Boccaccio,  he  would  not  thereby  have  incurred  a  heavy 
debt  to  the  Italian  novelist.     There  is  nothing  really  dra- 
matic in  the  schemes  of  the  Decamerone,  or  of  the  nu- 
merous imitations  which  it  called  forth,  from  the  French 
Heptameron  and  the  Neapolitan  Pentamerone  down  to  the 
German  Phantasus.     It  is  unnecessary  to  come  nearer  to 
our  own  times;  for  the  author  of  the  Earthly  Paradise 
follows  Chaucer  in  endeavouring  at  least  to  give  a  frame- 
work of  real  action  to  his  collection  of  poetic  tales.     There 
is  no  organic  connexion  between  the  powerful  narrative  of 
the   Plague    opening  Boccaccio's   book,  and  the  stories, 
chiefly  of  love  and  its  adventures,  which  follow ;  all  that 
Boccaccio  did  was  to  preface  an  interesting  series  of  tales 
by  a  more  interesting  chapter  of  history,  and  then  to  bind 
the  tales  themselves  together  lightly  and  naturally  in  days, 
like  rows  of  pearls  in  a  collar.     But  while  in  the  Decam- 
erone  the  framework,  in  its  relation  to  the  stories,  is  of  lit- 


„.]  CHAUCER  AND  BOCCACCIO.  117 

tie  or  no  significance,  in  the  Canterbury  Tales  it  forms  one 
of  the  most  valuable  organic  elements  in  the  whole  work. 
One  test  of  the  distinction  is  this :  what  reader  of  the  De- 
camerone  connects  any  of  the  novels  composing  it  with 
the  personality  of  the  particular  narrator,  or  even  cares  to 
remember  the  grouping  of  the  stories  as  illustrations  of 
fortunate  or  unfortunate,  adventurous  or  illicit,  passion  ? 
The  charm  of  Boccaccio's  book,  apart  from  the  indepen- 
dent merits  of  the  Introduction,  lies  in  the  admirable  skill 
and  unflagging  vivacity  with  which  the  "  novels "  them- 
selves are  told.     The  scheme  of  the  Canterbury  Tales,  on 
the   other  hand,  possesses  some  genuinely  dramatic  ele- 
ments.    If  the  entire  form,  at  all  events  in  its  extant  con- 
dition, can  scarcely  be  said  to  have  a  plot,  it  at  least  has 
an  exposition  unsurpassed  by  that  of  any  comedy,  ancient 
or  modern ;  it  has  the  possibility  of  a  growth  of  action 
and  interest ;  and,  which  is  of  far  more  importance,  it  has 
a  variety  of  characters  which  mutually  both  relieve  and 
supplement  one  another.     With  how  sure  an  instinct,  by 
the  way,  Chaucer  has  anticipated  that  unwritten  law  of 
the  modern  drama  according  to  which  low  comedy  charac- 
ters always  appear  in  couples !     Thus  the  Miller  and  the 
Beeve  are  a  noble  pair  running  in  parallel  lines,  though  in 
contrary  directions ;  so  are  the  Cook  and  the  Manciple,  and 
again  and  more  especially  the  Friar  and  the  Summoner. 
Thus  at  least  the  germ  of  a  comedy  exists  in  the  plan  of 
the  Canterbury  Tales.     No  comedy  could  be  formed  out 
of  the  mere  circumstance  of  a  company  of  ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen sitting  down  in  a  country-house  to  tell  an  unlim- 
ited number  of  stories  on  a  succession  of  topics;  but  a 
comedy  could  be  written  with  the  purpose  of   showing 
how  a  wide  variety  of  national  types  will  present  them- 
selves, when  brought  into  mutual  contact  by  an  occasion 


118  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

peculiarly  fitted  to  call  forth  their  individual  rather  than 
their  common  characteristics. 

For  not  only  are  we  at  the  opening  of  the  Canterbury 
Tales  placed  in  the  very  heart  and  centre  of  English  life ; 
but  the  poet  contrives  to  find  for  what  may  be  called  his 
action  a  background,  which  seems  of  itself  to  suggest  the 
most  serious  emotions  and  the  most  humorous  associations. 
And  this  without  anything  grotesque  in  the  collocation, 
such  as  is  involved  in  the  notion  of  men  telling  anecdotes 
at  a  funeral,  or  forgetting  a  pestilence  ov^er  love-stories. 
Chaucer's  dramatis  personce  are  a  company  of  pilgrims, 
whom  at  first  we  find  assembled  in  a  hostelry  in  South- 
wark,  and  whom  we  afterwards  accompany  on  their  jour- 
ney to  Canterbury.  The  hostelry  is  that  Tabard  inn 
which,  though  it  changed  its  name,  and  no  doubt  much  of 
its  actual  structure,  long  remained,  both  in  its  general  ap- 
pearance, and  perhaps  in  part  of  its  actual  self,  a  genuine 
relic  of  mediaeval  London.  There,  till  within  a  very  few 
years  from  the  present  date,  might  still  be  had  a  draught 
of  that  London  ale  of  which  Chaucer's  Cook  was  so  thor- 
ough a  connoisseur  ;  and  there  within  the  big  courtyard,  sur- 
rounded by  a  gallery  very  probably  a  copy  of  its  prede- 
cessor, was  ample  room  for 

"...  Well  nine  and  twenty  in  a  company 
Of  sundry  folk," 

with  their  horses  and  travelling  gear  sufiicient  for  a  ride 
to  Canterbury.  The  goal  of  this  ride  has  its  religious,  its 
national,  one  might  even  say  its  political  aspect;  but  the 
journey  itself  has  an  importance  of  its  own.  A  journey 
is  generally  one  of  the  best  of  opportunities  for  bringing 
out  the  distinctive  points  in  the  characters  of  travellers; 
and  we  are  accustomed  to  say  that  no  two  men  can  long 


n.]  FRAMEWORK  OF  THE  TALES.  119 

travel  in  one  another's  company  unless  their  friendship  is 
equal  to  the  severest  of  tests.  At  home  men  live  mostly 
among  colleagues  and  comrades;  on  a  journey  they  are 
placed  in  continual  contrast  with  men  of  different  pursuits 
and  different  habits  of  life.  The  shipman  away  from  his 
ship,  the  monk  away  from  his  cloister,  the  scholar  away 
from  his  books,  become  interesting  instead  of  remaining 
commonplace,  because  the  contrasts  become  marked  which 
exist  between  them.  Moreover,  men  undertake  journeys 
for  divers  purposes,  and  a  pilgrimage  in  Chaucer's  day 
united  a  motley  group  of  chance  companions  in  search  of 
different  ends  at  the  same  goal.  One  goes  to  pray,  the 
other  seeks  profit ;  the  third  distraction,  the  fourth  pleas- 
ure. To  some  the  road  is  everything ;  to  others,  its  ter- 
minus. All  this  vanity  lay  in  the  mere  choice  of  Chau- 
cer's framework ;  there  was,  accordingly,  something  of  gen- 
ius in  the  thought  itself ;  and  even  an  inferior  workman- 
ship could  hardly  have  left  a  description  of  a  Canterbury 
pilgrimage  unproductive  of  a  wide  variety  of  dramatic 
effects. 

But  Chaucer's  workmanship  was  as  admirable  as  his 
selection  of  his  framework  was  felicitous.  He  has  exe- 
cuted only  part  of  his  scheme,  according  to  which  each 
pilgrim  was  to  tell  two  tales  both  going  and  coming,  and 
the  best  narrator,  the  laureate  of  this  merry  company,  was 
to  be  rewarded  by  a  supper  at  the  common  expense  on 
their  return  to  their  starting-place.  Thus  the  design  was, 
not  merely  to  string  together  a  number  of  poetical  tales 
by  an  easy  thread,  but  to  give  a  real  unity  and  complete- 
ness to  the  whole  poem.  All  the  tales  told  by  all  the 
pilgrims  were  to  be  connected  together  by  links;  the 
reader  was  to  take  an  interest  in  the  movement  and 
progress  of  the  journey  to  and  fro;  and  the  poem  was 


120  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

to  have  a  middle  as  well  as  a  beginning  and  an  end — the 
beginning  being  the  inimitable  Prologue  as  it  now  stands ; 
the  middle  the  history  of  the  pilgrims'  doings  at  Canter- 
bury ;  and  the  close  their  return  and  farewell  celebration 
at  the  Tabard  inn.  Though  Chaucer  carried  out  only 
about  a  fourth  part  of  this  plan,  yet  we  can  see,  as  clearly 
as  if  the  whole  poem  lay  before  us  in  a  completed  form, 
that  its  most  salient  feature  was  intended  to  lie  in  the 
variety  of  its  characters. 

Each  of  these  characters  is  distinctly  marked  out  in 
itself,  while  at  the  same  time  it  is  designed  as  the  type 
of  a  class.     This  very  obvious  criticism,  of  course,  most 
readily  admits  of  being  illustrated  by  the  Prologue  —  a 
gallery  of  5re?ire-portraits  which  many  master-hands  have 
essayed  to  reproduce  with  pen  or  with  pencil.     Indeed, 
one  lover  of  Chaucer  sought  to  do  so  with  both — poor 
gifted  Blake,  whose   descriptive   text   of   his   picture   of 
the  Canterbury  Pilgrims  Charles  Lamb,  with  the  loving 
exaggeration  in  which  he  was  at  times  fond  of  indulging, 
pronounced  the  finest  criticism  on  Chaucer's  poem  he  had 
ever  read.     But  it  should  be  likewise  noticed  that  the 
character  of  each  pilgrim  is  kept  up  through  the  poem, 
both  incidentally  in  the  connecting  passages  between  tale 
and  tale,  and  in  the  manner  in  which  the   tales  them- 
selves are  introduced  and  told.     The  connecting  passages 
are  full  of  dramatic  vivacity ;  in  these  the  Host^  Master 
Harry  Bailly,  acts  as  a  most  eflScient  choragus ;  but  the 
other  pilgrims  are  not  silent,  and  in  the  Manciple's  Pro- 
lotrue  the  Cook  enacts  a  bit  of  downright  farce  for  the 
amusement  of  the  company  and  of  stray  inhabitants  of 
"  Bob  -up  -  and  -  down."    He  is,  however,  homoeopathically 
^        cured  of  the  effects  of  his  drunkenness,  so  that  the  Host 
U      feels  justified  in  offering  up  a  thanksgiving  to  Bacchus 


ii.l  THE  CHARACTERS.  121 

for  his  powers  of  conciliation.     The  Man  of  Law's  Pro-   / 1 
logue  is  an  argument ;  the  Wife  of  BatK's  the  ceaseless 
clatter  of  an  indomitable  tongue.     The  sturdy  Franklin 
corrects  himself  when  deviating  into  circumlocution  : — 

"  Till  that  the  brighte  sun  had  lost  his  hue, 
For  th'  horizon  had  reft  the  sun  of  light 
(This  is  as  much  to  say  as  :  it  was  night)." 

The  Miller  "tells  his  churlish  tale  in  his  manner,"  of 
which  manner  the  less  said  the  better ;  while  in  the  Reeve! s 
Tale,  Chaucer  even,  after  the  manner  of  a  comic  drama- 
tist, gives  his  Northern  undergraduate  a  vulgar,  ungram- 
matical  phraseology,  probably  designedly,  since  the  poet 
was  himself  a  "  Southern  man."  The  Pardoner  is  exuber- 
ant in  his  sample-eloquence ;  the  Doctor  of  Physic  is  gravd- 
\j  and  sententiously  moral — 

"...  A  proper  man, 
And  like  a  prelate,  by  Saint  Runyan," 

says  the  Host.  Most  sustained  of  all,  though  he  tells  no 
tale,  is,  from  the  nature  of  the  case,  the  character  of  Harry 
Bailly,  the  host  of  the  Tabard,  himself  —  who,  whatever 
resemblance  he  may  bear  to  his  actual  original,  is  the  an- 
cestor of  a  long  line  of  descendants,  including  mine  Host 
of  the  Garter  in  the  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor.  He  is  a 
thorough  worldling,  to  whom  anything  smacking  of  the 
precisian  in  morals  is  as  offensive  as  anything  of  a  Ro- 
mantic tone  in  literature  ;  he  smells  a  Lollard  without  fail, 
and  turns  up  his  nose  at  an  old-fashioned  ballad  or  a  string 
of  tragic  instances  as  out  of  date  or  tedious.  In  short,  he 
speaks  his  mind  and  that  of  other  more  timid  people  at 
the  same  time,  and  is  one  of  those  sinners  whom  every- 
body both  likes  and  respects.  "  I  advise,"  says  the  Par* 
16*  9 


122  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

doneVy  with  polite  impudence  (when  inviting  the  company 

to  become  purchasers  of  the  holy  wares  which  he  has  for 

sale),  that 

"...  Our  host,  he  shall  begin, 

For  he  is  most  enveloped  in  sin." 

He  is  thus  both  an  admirable  picture  in  himself  and  an 
admirable  foil  to  those  characters  which  are  most  unlike 
him — above  all,  to  the  Parson  and  the  Clerk  of  Oxford, 
the  representatives  of  religion  and  learning. 

As  to  the  Tales  themselves,  Chaucer  beyond  a  doubt 
meant  their  style  and  tone  to  be  above  all  things  popular. 
This  is  one  of  the  causes  accounting  for  the  favour  shown 
to  the  work — a  favour  attested,  so  far  as  earlier  times  are 
concerned,  by  the  vast  number  of  manuscripts  existing  of 
it.  The  Host  is,  so  to  speak,  charged  with  the  constant 
injunction  of  this  cardinal  principle  of  popularity  as  to 
both  theme  and  style.  "  Tell  us,"  he  coolly  demands  of 
the  most  learned  and  sedate  of  all  his  fellow-travellers, 

"...  Some  merry  thing  of  adventures; 
Your  termes,  your  colours,  and  your  figures, 
Keep  them  in  store,  till  so  be  ye  indite 
High  style,  as  when  that  men  to  kinges  write ; 
Speak  ye  so  plain  at  this  time,  we  you  pray, 
That  we  may  understande  that  ye  say." 

And  the  Clerk  follows  the  spirit  of  the  injunction  both 
by  omitting,  as  impertinent,  a  proeme  in  which  his  orig- 
inal, Petrarch,  gives  a  great  deal  of  valuable,  but  not  in  its 
connexion  interesting,  geographical  information,  and  by 
adding  a  facetious  moral  to  what  he  calls  the  "  unrestf ul 
matter  "  of  his  story.  Even  the  Squire,  though,  after  the 
manner  of  young  men,  far  more  than  his  elders  addicted  to 
the  grand  style,  and  accordingly  specially  praised  for  his 


II.]  POPULAR  STYLE  OF  THE  TALES.  123 

eloquence  by  the  simple  Franklin^  prefers  to  reduce  to  its 
plain  meaning  the  courtly  speech  of  the  Knight  of  the 
Brazen  Steed.  In  connexion  with  what  was  said  above, 
it  is  observable  that  each  of  the  Tales  in  subject  suits  its 
narrator.  Not  by  chance  is  the  all-but-Quixotic  romance 
of  Palamon  and  Arcite^  taken  by  Chaucer  from  Boccaccio's 
Teseide,  related  by  the  Knight ;  not  by  chance  does  the 
ClerJc^  following  Petrarch's  Latin  version  of  a  story  related 
by  the  same  author,  tell  the  even  more  improbable,  but,  in 
the  plainness  of  its  moral,  infinitely  more  fructuous,  tale 
of  patient  Griseldis.  How  well  the  Second  Nun  is  fitted 
with  a  legend  which  carries  us  back  a  few  centuries  into 
the  atmosphere  of  Hrosvitha's  comedies,  and  suggests  with 
the  utmost  verisimilitude  the  nature  of  a  nun's  lucubra- 
tions on  the  subject  of  marriage.  It  is  impossible  to  go 
through  the  whole  list  of  the  Tales  ;  but  all  may  be  truly 
said  to  be  in  keeping  with  the  characters  and  manners 
(often  equally  indifferent)  of  their  tellers — down  to  that 
of  the  Nmi's  Priest,  which,  brimful  of  humour  as  it  is,  has 
just  the  mild  naughtiness  about  it  which  comes  so  drolly 
from  a  spiritual  director  in  his  worldlier  hour. 

Not  a  single  one  of  these  Tales  can  with  any  show  of 
reason  be  ascribed  to  Chaucer's  own  invention.  French 
literature — chiefly,  though  not  solely,  that  of  fabliaux — 
doubtless  supplied  the  larger  share  of  his  •materials ;  but 
that  here  also  his  debts  to  Italian  literature,  and  to  Boc- 
caccio in  particular,  are  considerable,  seems  hardly  to  ad- 
mit of  denial.  But  while  Chaucer  freely  borrowed  from 
foreign  models,  he  had  long  passed  beyond  the  stage  of 
translating  without  assimilating.  It  would  be  rash  to  as- 
sume that  where  he  altered  he  invariably  improved.  His 
was  not  the  unerring  eye  which,  like  Shakspeare's  in  his 
dramatic  transfusions  of  Plutarch,  missed  no  particle  of 


124  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

the  gold  mingled  with  the  baser  metal,  but  rejected  the 
dross  with  sovereign  certainty.  In  dealing  with  Italian 
originals  more  especially,  he  sometimes  altered  for  the 
worse,  and  sometimes  for  the  better ;  but  he  was  never  a 
mere  slavish  translator.  So  in  the  KnigMs  Tale  he  may 
be  held  in  some  points  to  have  deviated  disadvantageously 
from  his  original ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  in  the  Clerk's 
Tale  he  inserts  a  passage  on  the  fidelity  of  women,  and 
another  on  the  instability  of  the  multitude,  besides  adding 
a  touch  of  nature  irresistibly  pathetic  in  the  exclamation 
of  the  faithful  wife,  tried  beyond  her  power  of  concealing 
the  emotion  within  her : 

"  0  gracious  God !  how  gentle  and  how  kind 
Ye  seemed  by  your  speech  and  your  visage 
The  day  that  makM  was  our  marriage." 

So  also  in  the  Man  of  Law's  Tale,  which  is  taken  from 
the  French,  he  increases  the  vivacity  of  the  narrative  by  a 
considerable  number  of  apostrophes  in  his  own  favourite 
manner,  besides  pleasing  the  general  reader  by  divers  gen- 
eral reflexions  of  his  own  inditing.  Almost  necessarily, 
the  literary  form  and  the  self-consistency  of  his  originals 
lose  under  such  treatment.  But  his  dramatic  sense,  on 
which,  perhaps,  his  commentators  have  not  always  suffi- 
ciently dwelt,  is  rarely,  if  ever,  at  fault.  Two  illustrations 
of  this  gift  in  Chaucer  must  suffice,  which  shall  be  chosen 
in  two  quarters  where  he  has  worked  with  materials  of  the 
most  widely  different  kind.  Many  readers  must  have  com- 
pared with  Dante's  original  (in  canto  xxxiii.  of  the  Infer- 
no) Chaucer's  version  in  the  Monk's  Tale  of  the  story  of 
TJgolino.  Chaucer,  while  he  necessarily  omits  the  ghastly 
introduction,  expands  the  pathetic  picture  of  the  sufferings 
of  the  father  and  his  sons  in  their  dungeon,  and  closes,  far 


n.]  STORY  OF  UGOLINO.    "  125 

more  briefly  and  effectively  than  Dante,  with  a  touch  of 
the  most  refined  pathos : — 

"DE  HUGILINO  COMITE  PIS^. 

"  Of  Hugolin  of  Pisa  the  languor 
There  may  no  tongue  telle  for  pity. 
But  little  out  of  Pisa  stands  a  tower, 
In  whiche  tower  in  prison  put  was  he ; 
And  with  him  be  his  httle  children  three. 
The  eldest  scarcely  five  years  was  of  age ; 
Alas !  fortune !  it  was  great  cruelty 
Such  birds  as  these  to  put  in  such  a  cage. 

"  Condemned  he  was  to  die  in  that  prison, 
For  Royer,  which  that  bishop  was  of  Pise, 
Had  on  him  made  a  false  suggestion, 
Through  which  the  people  gan  on  him  arise. 
And  put  him  in  prison  in  such  a  wise, 
As  ye  have  heard,  and  meat  and  drink  he  had 
So  little  that  it  hardly  might  suffice, 
And  therewithal  it  was  full  poor  and  bad. 

"  And  on  a  day  befell  that  in  that  hour 
When  that  his  meat  was  wont  to  be  y-brought. 
The  gaoler  shut  the  doores  of  that  tower. 
He  heard  it  well,  although  he  saw  it  not ; 
And  in  his  heart  anon  there  fell  a  thought 
That  they  his  death  by  hunger  did  devise. 
'  Alas  !'  quoth  he — '  alas  !  that  I  was  wrought  V 
Therewith  the  teares  felle  from  his  eyes. 

"His  youngest  son,  that  three  years  was  of  age, 
Unto  him  said :  '  Father,  why  do  ye  weep  ? 
When  will  the  gaoler  bring  us  our  pottage  ? 
Is  there  no  morsel  bread  that  ye  do  keep  ? 
I  am  so  hungry  that  I  cannot  sleep. 
Now  woulde  God  that  I  might  sleep  for  ever ! 
Then  should  not  hunger  in  my  belly  creep. 
There  is  no  thing  save  bread  that  I  would  liever." 


126  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

"  Thus  day  by  day  this  child  began  to  cry, 
Till  in  his  father's  lap  adown  he  lay, 
And  saide  :  '  Farewell,  father,  I  must  die !' 
And  kissed  his  father,  and  died  the  same  day. 
The  woeful  father  saw  that  dead  he  lay. 
And  his  two  arms  for  woe  began  to  bite, 
And  said :  '  Fortune,  alas  and  well-away  ! 
For  all  my  woe  I  blame  thy  treacherous  spite.* 

"  His  children  weened  that  it  for  hunger  was, 
That  he  his  armes  gnawed,  and  not  for  woe. 
And  saide :  '  Father,  do  not  so,  alas ! 
But  rather  eat  the  flesh  upon  us  two. 
Our  flesh  thou  gavest  us,  our  flesh  thou  take  us  fro, 
And  eat  enough.'     Right  thus  they  to  him  cried ; 
And  after  that,  within  a  day  or  two, 
They  laid  them  in  his  lap  adown  and  died." 

The  father,  in  despair,  likewise  died  of  hunger;  and  such 
was  the  end  of  the  mighty  Earl  of  Pisa,  whose  tragedy 
whosoever  desires  to  hear  at  greater  length  may  read  it  as 
t(0ld  by  the  great  poet  of  Italy  hight  Dante. 

The  other  instance  is  that  of  The  Pardoner's  Tale,  which 
would  appear  to  have  been  based  on  2i  fabliau  now  lost, 
tliough  the  substance  of  it  is  preserved  in  an  Italian  novel, 
and  in  one  or  two  other  versions.  For  the  purpose  of  no- 
ticing how  Chaucer  arranges  as  well  as  tells  a  story,  the 
following  attempt  at  a  condensed  prose  rendering  of  his 
narrative  may  be  acceptable  : — 

Once  upon  a  time  in  Flanders  there  was  a  company  of 
young  men,  who  gave  themselves  up  to  every  kind  of 
dissipation  and  debauchery — haunting  the  taverns  where 
dancing  and  dicing  continues  day  and  night,  eating  and 
drinking,  and  serving  the  devil  in  his  own  temple  by  their 
outrageous  life  of  luxury.  It  was  horrible  to  hear  their 
oaths,  how  they  tore  to  pieces  our  blessed  Lord's  body,  as 


II.]  THE  PARDONER'S  TALE.  127 

if  they  thought  the  Jews  had  not  rent  Him  enough ;  and 
each  laughed  at  the  sin  of  the  others,  and  all  were  alike 
immersed  in  gluttony  and  wantonness. 

And  so  one  morning  it  befel  that  three  of  these  rioters 
were  sitting  over  their  drink  in  a  tavern,  long  before  the 
bell  had  rung  for  nine-o'clock  prayers.  And  as  they  sat, 
they  heard  a  bell  clinking  before  a  corpse  that  was  being 
carried  to  the  grave.  So  one  of  them  bade  his  servant- 
lad  go  and  ask  what  was  the  name  of  the  dead  man ;  but 
the  boy  said  that  he  knew  it  already,  and  that  it  was  the 
name  of  an  old  companion  of  his  master's.  As  he  had 
been  sitting  drunk  on  a  bench,  there  had  come  a  privy 
thief,  whom  men  called  Death,  and  who  slew  all  the  peo- 
ple in  this  country ;  and  he  had  smitten  the  drunken  man's 
heart  in  two  with  his  spear,  and  had  then  gone  on  his  way 
without  any  more  words.  This  Death  had  slain  a  thou- 
sand during  the  present  pestilence ;  and  the  boy  thought 
it  worth  warning  his  master  to  beware  of  such  an  adver- 
sary, and  to  be  ready  to  meet  him  at  any  time.  "  So  my 
mother  taught  me  ;  I  say  no  more."  *'  Marry,"  said  the 
keeper  of  the  tavern ;  "  the  child  tells  the  truth :  this 
Death  has  slain  all  the  inhabitants  of  a  great  village  not 
far  from  here  ;  I  think  that  there  must  be  the  place  where 
he  dwells."  Then  the  rioter  swore  with  some  of  his  big 
oaths  that  he  at  least  was  not  afraid  of  this  Death,  and 
that  he  would  seek  him  out  wherever  he  dwelt.  And  at 
his  instance  his  two  boon-companions  joined  with  him  in 
a  vow  that  before  nightfall  they  would  slay  the  false  trai- 
tor Death,  who  was  the  slayer  of  so  many ;  and  the  vow 
they  swore  was  one  of  closest  fellowship  between  them — 
to  live  and  die  for  one  another  as  if  they  had  been  breth- 
ren born.  And  so  they  went  forth  in  their  drunken  fury 
towards  the  village  of  which  the  taverner  had  spoken,  with 


128  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

terrible  execrations  on  their  lips  that  "  Death  should  be 
dead,  if  they  might  catch  him." 

They  had  not  gone  quite  half  a  mile  when,  at  a  stile 
between  two  fields,  they  came  upon  a  poor  old  man,  who 
meekly  greeted  them  with  a  "  God  save  you,  sirs."     But 
the  proudest  of  the  three  rioters  answered  him  roughly, 
asMng  him  why  he  kept  himself  all  wrapped  up  except  his 
face,  and  how  so  old  a  fellow  as  he  had  managed  to  keep 
alive  so  long?     And  the  old  man  looked  him  straight  in 
the  face  and  replied,  "Because  in  no  town  or  village, 
though  I  journey  as  far  as  the  Indies,  can  I  find  a  man 
willing  to  exchange  his  youth  for  my  age ;  and  therefore 
I  must  keep  it  so  long  as  God  wills  it  so.     Death,  alas! 
will  not  have  my  life,  and  so  I  wander  about  like  a  rest- 
less fugitive,  and  early  and  late  I  knock  on  the  ground, 
which  is  my  mother's  gate,  with  my  staff,  and  say, '  Dear 
mother,  let  me  in !  behold  how  I  waste  away !    Alas !  when 
shall  my  bones  be  at  rest  ?     Mother,  gladly  will  I  give  you 
my  chest  containing  all  my  worldly  gear  in  return  for  a 
shroud  to  wrap  me  in.'     But  she  refuses  me  that  grace, 
and  that  is  why  my  face  is  pale  and  withered.     But  you, 
sirs,  are  uncourteous  to  speak  rudely  to  an  inoffensive  old 
man,  when   Holy  Writ  bids  you  reverence   grey  hairs. 
Therefore,  never  again  give  offence  to  an  old  man,  if  you 
wish  men  to  be  courteous  to  you  in  your  age,  should  you 
live  so  long.    And  so  God  be  with  you ;  I  must  go  whither 
I  have  to  go."     But  the  second  rioter  prevented  him,  and 
swore  he  should  not  depart  so  lightly.     "Thou  spakest 
just  now  of  that  traitor  Death,  who  slays  all  our  friends 
in  this  country.     As  thou  art  his  spy,  hear  me  swear  that, 
unless  thou  tellest  where  he  is,  thou  shalt  die ;  for  thou 
art  in  his  plot  to  slay  us  young  men,  thou  false  thief !" 
Then  the  old  man  told  them  that  if  they  were  so  desirous 


II.]  THE  PARDONER'S  TALE.  129 

of  finding  Death,  they  had  but  to  turn  up  a  winding  path 
to  which  he  pointed,  and  there  they  would  find  him  they 
sought  in  a  grove  under  an  oak-tree,  where  the  old  man 
had  just  left  him ;  "he  will  not  try  to  hide  himself  for  all 
your  boasting.  And  so  may  God  the  Redeemer  save  you 
and  amend  you  1"  And  when  he  had  spoken,  all  the  three 
rioters  ran  till  they  came  to  the  tree.  But  what  they  found 
there  was  a  treasure  of  golden  florins — nearly  seven  bush- 
els of  them,  as  they  thought.  Then  they  no  longer  sought 
after  Death,  but  sat  down  all  three  by  the  shining  gold. 
And  the  youngest  of  them  spoke  first,  and  declared  that 
Fortune  had  given  this  treasure  to  them,  so  that  they  might 
spend  the  rest  of  their  lives  in  mirth  and  jollity.  .  The 
question  was  how  to  take  this  money — which  clearly  be- 
longed to  some  one  else — safely  to  the  house  of  one  of  the 
three  companions.  It  must  be  done  by  night ;  so  let  them 
draw  lots,  and  let  him  on  whom  the  lot  fell  run  to  the 
town  to  fetch  bread  and  wine,  while  the  other  two  guard- 
ed the  treasure  carefully  till  the  night  came,  when  they 
might  agree  whither  to  transport  it. 

The  lot  fell  on  the  youngest,  who  forthwith  went  his 
way  to  the  town.  Then  one  of  those  who  remained  with 
the  treasure  said  to  the  other:  "Thou  knowest  well  that 
thou  art  my  sworn  brother,  and  I  will  tell  thee  something 
to  thy  advantage.  Our  companion  is  gone,  and  here  is  a 
great  quantity  of  gold  to  be  divided  among  us  three.  But 
say,  if  I  could  manage  so  that  the  gold  is  divided  between 
us  two,  should  I  not  do  thee  a  friend's  turn  ?"  And  when 
the  other  failed  to  understand  him,  he  made  him  promise 
secrecy,  and  disclosed  his  plan.  "  Two  are  stronger  than 
one.  When  he  sits  down,  arise  as  if  thou  wouldest  sport 
with  him;  and  while  thou  art  struggling  with  him  as  in 
play,  I  will  rive  him  through  both  his  sides ;  and  look 


130  CHAUCER.  [cHAr. 

tljou  do  tlie  same  with  thy  dagger.  After  which,  my  dear 
friend,  we  will  divide  all  the  gold  between  you  and  me, 
and  then  we  may  satisfy  all  our  desires  and  play  at  dice  to 
our  hearts'  content." 

Meanwhile  the  youngest  rioter,  as  he  went  up  to  the 
town,  revolved  in  his  heart  the  beauty  of  the  bright  new 
florins,  and  said  unto  himself :  "  If  only  I  could  have  all 
this  gold  to  myself  alone,  there  is  no  man  on  earth  who 
would  live  so  merrily  as  I."     And  at  last  the  Devil  put  it 
into  his  relentless  heart  to  buy  poison,  in  order  with  it  to 
kill  his  two  companions.      And  straightway  he  went  on 
into  the  town  to  an  apothecary,  and  besought  him  to  sell 
him  some  poison  for  destroying  some  rats  which  infested 
his  house,  and  a  polecat  which,  he  said,  had  made  away 
with  his  capons.     And  the  apothecary  said :  "  Thou  shalt 
have  something  of  which  (so  may  God  save  my  soul!) 
no  creature  in  all  the  world  could  swallow  a  single  grain 
without  losing  his  life  thereby— and  that  in  less  time  than 
thou  wouldest  take  to  walk  a  mile  in."     So  the  miscreant 
shut  up  this  poison  in  a  box,  and  then  he  went  into  the 
next  street  and  borrowed  three  large  bottles,  into  two  of 
which  he  poured  his  poison,  while  the  third  he  kept  clean 
to  hold  drink  for  himself ;  for  he  meant  to  work  hard  all 
the  night  to  carry  away  the  gold.     So  he  filled  his  three 
bottles  with  wine,  and  then  went  back  to  his  companions 
under  the  tree. 

What  need  to  make  a  long  discourse  of  what  followed  ? 
As  they  had  plotted  their  comrade's  death,  so  they  slew 
him,  and  that  at  once.  And  when  they  had  done  this,  the 
one  who  had  counselled  the  deed  said,  "  Now  let  us  sit  and 
drink  and  make  merry,  and  then  we  will  bury  his  body." 
And  it  happened  to  him  by  chance  to  take  one  of  the  bot- 
tles which  contained  the  poison ;  and  he  drank,  and  gave 


ji.]  THE  PARDONER'S  TALE.  131 

drink  of  it  to  his  fellow;  and  thus  they  both  speedily 
died. 

The  plot  of  this  story  is,  as  observed,  not  Chaucer's. 
But  how  carefully,  how  artistically,  the  narrative  is  elabo- 
rated, incident  by  incident,  and  point  by  point !  How  weP 
every  effort  is  prepared,  and  how  well  every  turn  of  the 
story  is  explained !  Nothing  is  superfluous,  but  everything 
is  arranged  with  care,  down  to  the  circumstances  of  the 
bottles  being  bought,  for  safety's  sake,  in  the  next  street 
to  the  apothecary's,  and  of  two  out  of  three  bottles  being 
filled  with  poison,  which  is  at  once  a  proceeding  natural  in 
itself,  and  increases  the  chances  against  the  two  rioters 
when  they  are  left  to  choose  for  themselves.  This  it  is 
to  be  a  good  story-teller.  But  of  a  different  order  is  the 
change  introduced  by  Chaucer  into  his  original,  where  the 
old  hermit — who,  of  course,  is  Death  himself — is  fleeing 
from  Death.  Chaucer's  Old  Man  is  seeking  Death,  but 
seekino;  him  in  vain — like  the  Wanderinoj  Jew  of  the  le- 
gend.     This  it  is  to  be  a  poet.  ^^ 

Of  course  it  is  always  necessary  to  be  cautious  before 
asserting  any  apparent  addition  of  Chaucer's  to  be  his  own 
invention.  Thus,  in  the  Merchants  Tale,  the  very  naughty 
plot  of  which  is  anything  but  original,  it  is  impossible  to 
say  whether  such  is  the  case  with  the  humorous  competi- 
tion of  advice  between  Justinus  and  Placebo,*  or  with  the 
fantastic  machinery  in  which  Pluto  and  Proserpine  antic- 
ipate the  part  played  by  Oberon  and  Titania  in  A  Mid- 
summer Nighfs  Dream.  On  the  other  hand,  Chaucer  is 
capable  of  using  goods  manifestly  borrowed  or  stolen  for 

*  "  Placebo  "  seems  to  have  been  a  current  term  to  express  the 
character  or  the  ways  of  "the  too  deferential  man."  "Flatterers 
be  the  Devil's  chaplains,  that  sing  aye  Placebo.'''' — Parson's  Tale. 


132  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

a  purpose  never  intended  in  their  original  employment* 
Puck  himself  must  have  guided  the  audacious  hand  which 
could  turn  over  the  leaves  of  so  respected  a  Father  of  the 
Church  as  St.  Jerome,  in  order  to  derive  from  his  treatise 
On  Perpetual  Virginity  materials  for  the  discourse  on 
matrimony  delivered,  with  illustrations  essentially  her  own, 
by  the  Wife  of  Bath. 

Two  only  among  these  Tales  are  in  prose — a  vehicle  of 
expression,  on  the  whole,  strange  to  the  polite  literature 
of  the  pre-Renascence  ages — but  not  both  for  the  same 
reason.  The  first  of  these  Tales  is  told  by  the  poet  him- 
self, after  a  stop  has  been  unceremoniously  put  upon  his 
recital  of  the  Ballad,  of  Sir  Thopas  by  the  Host.  The 
ballad  itself  is  a  fragment  of  straightforward  burlesque, 
which  shows  that  in  both  the  manner  and  the  metre^  of 
ancient  romances,  literary  criticism  could  even  in  Chaucer's 
days  find  its  opportunities  for  satire,  though  it  is  going 
rather  far  to  see  in  Sir  Thopas  a  predecessor  of  Don 
Quixote.  The  Tale  of  Melihoeus  is  probably  an  English 
version  of  a  French  translation  of  Albert  of  Brescia's  fa- 
mous Book  of  Consolation  and  Counsel,  which  comprehends 
in  a  slight  narrative  framework  a  long  discussion  between 
the  unfortunate  Meliboeus,  whom  the  wrongs  and  suffer- 
ings inflicted  upon  him  and  his  have  brought  to  the  verge 
of  despair,  and  his  wise  helpmate,  Dame  Prudence.  By 
means  of  a  long  argumentation  propped  up  by  quotations 
(not  invariably  assigned  with  conscientious  accuracy  to 
their  actual  source)  from  "  The  Book,"  Seneca,  "  Tullius," 
and  other  authors,  she  at  last  persuades  him  not  only  to 
reconcile  himself  to  his  enemies,  but  to  forgive  them,  even 
as  he  hopes  to  be  forgiven.     And  thus  the  Tale  well  bears 

*  Dunbar's  burlesque  ballad  of  Sir  Thomas  Norray  is  in  the  same 
stanza. 


II.]  THE  TWO  PROSE  TALES.  133 

out  the  truth  irapressed  upon  MelibcEUs  by  the  following 
ingeniously  combined  quotation  : — 

And  there  said  once  a  clerk  in  two  verses :  What  is  better  than 
gold?  Jasper.  And  what  is  better  than  jasper?  Wisdom.  And 
what  is  better  than  wisdom?  Woman.  And  what  is  better  than 
woman  ?     No  thing. 


'O' 


Certainly,  Chaucer  gave  proof  of  consummate  tact  and 
taste,  as  well  as  of  an  unaffected  personal  modesty,  in  as- 
signing to  himself  as  one  of  the  com.pany  of  pilgrims,  in- 
stead of  a  tale  bringing  him  into  competition  with  the 
creatures  of  his  o.vn  invention,  after  his  mocking  ballad 
has  served  its  turn,  nothing  more  ambitious  than  a  version 
of  a  popular  discourse  —  half  narrative,  half  homily  —  in 
prose.  But  a  question  of  far  greater  diflBculty  and  mo- 
ment arises  with  regard  to  the  other  prose  piece  included 
among  the  Canterbury  Tales.  Of  these  the  so-called 
Parson's  Tale  is  the  last  in  order  of  succession.  Is  it  to 
be  looked  upon  as  an  integral  part  of  the  collection ;  and, 
if  so,  what  general  and  what  personal  significance  should 
be  attached  to  it  ? 

As  it  stands,  the  long  tractate  or  sermon  (partly  adapted 
from  a  popular  French  religious  manual),  which  bears  the 
name  of  the  Farson^s  Tale,  is,  if  not  unfinished,  at  least 
internally  incomplete.  It  lacks  symmetry,  and  fails  en- 
tirely to  make  good  the  argument  or  scheme  of  divisions 
with  which  the  sermon  begins,  as  conscientiously  as  one 
of  Barrow's.  Accordingly,  an  attempt  has  been  made  to 
show  that  what  we  have  is  something  different  from  the 
"  meditation  "  which  Chaucer  originally  put  into  his  Par- 
sow's  mouth.  But,  while  we  may  stand  in  respectful  awe 
of  the  German  daring  which,  whether  the  matter  in  hand 
be  a  few  pages  of  Chaucer,  a  Book  of  Homer,  or  a  chap 


134  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

ter  of  the  Old  Testament,  is  fully  prepared  to  show  which 
parts  of  each  are  mutilated,  which  interpolated,  and  which 
transposed,  we  may  safely  content  ourselves,  in  the  pre* 
ent  instance,  with  considering  the  preliminary  question. 
A  priori,  is  there  sufficient  reason  for  supposing  any  trans- 
positions, interpolations,  and  mutilations  to  have  been  in- 
troduced into  the  Parson'' s  Tale?  The  question  is  full 
of  interest ;  for  while,  on  the  one  hand,  the  character  of 
the  Parson  in  the  Prologue  has  been  frequently  interpret- 
ed as  evidence  of  sympathy  on  Chaucer's  part  with  Wyc- 
liffism,  on  the  other  hand  the  Parson's  Tale,  in  its  extant 
form,  goes  far  to  disprove  the  supposition  that  its  author 
was  a  Wycliffite. 

This,  then,  seems  the  appropriate  place  for  briefly  re- 
viewing the  vexed  question  —  Was  Chancer  a  Wycliffite? 
Apart  from  the  character  of  the  Parson  and  from  the 
Parson's  Tale,  what  is  the  nature  of  our  evidence  on  the 
subject  ?  In  the  first  place,  nothing  could  be  clearer  than 
that  Chaucer  was  a  very  free-spoken  critic  of  the  life  of 
[he  clergy — more  especially  of  the  Regular  clergy — of  his 
times.     In  this   character  he  comes  before  us  from  his 

ranslation  of  the  Roman  de  la  Rose  to  the  Parsorts  Tale 
itself,  where  he  inveighs  with  significant  earnestness  against 
self-indulgence  on  the  part  of  those  who  are  Religious,  or 
have  "entered  into  Orders,  as  sub -deacon,  or  deacon,  or 

)riest,  or  hospitallers."  In  the  Canterbury  Tales,  above 
all,  his  attacks  upon  the  Friars  run  nearly  the  whole  gamut 
of  satire,  stopping  short,  perhaps,  before  the  note  of  high 
jnoral  indignation.  Moreover,  as  has  been  seen,  his  long 
connexion  with  John  of  Gaunt  is  a  well-established  fact; 
and  it  has  thence  been  concluded  that  Chaucer  fully 
shared  the  opinions  and  tendencies  represented  by  his 
patron.     In  the  supposition  that  Chaucer  approved  of  the 


1I.J  WAS  CHAUCER  A  WYCLIFFITE?  135 

countenance  for  a  long  time  shown  by  John  of  Gaunt  to 
Wyclif  there  is  nothing  improbable ;  neither,  however,  is 
there  anything  improbable  in  this  other  supposition,  that, 
when  the  Duke  of  Lancaster  openly  washed  his  hands  of 
the  heretical  tenets  to  the  utterance  of  which  Wyclif  had 
advanced,  Chaucer,  together  with  the  large  majority  of 
Englishmen,  held  with  the  politic  duke  rather  than  with 
the  still  unflinching  Reformer.  So  long  as  Wyclif  s  move- 
ment consisted  only  of  an  opposition  to  ecclesiastical  pre- 
tensions on  the  one  hand,  and  of  an  attempt  to  revive  re- 
ligious sentiment  on  the  other,  half  the  country  or  more 
was  Wycliffite,  and  Chaucer  no  doubt  with  the  rest.  But 
it  would  require  positive  evidence  to  justify  the  belief  that 
from  this  feeling  Chaucer  ever  passed  to  sympathy  with 
Lollardry^  in  the  vague  but  sufficiently  intelligible  sense 
attaching  to  that  term  in  the  latter  part  of  Richard  the 
Second's  reign.  Richard  II.  himself,  whose  patronage  of 
Chaucer  is  certain,  in  the  end  attempted  rigorously  to 
suppress  Lollardry ;  and  Henry  IV.,  the  politic  John  of 
Gaunt's  yet  more  politic  son,  to  whom  Chaucer  owed  the 
prosperity  enjoyed  by  him  in  the  last  year  of  his  life,  be- 
came a  persecutor  almost  as  soon  as  he  became  a  king. 

Though,  then,  from  the  whole  tone  of  his  mind,  Chau- 
cer could  not  but  sympathise  with  the  opponents  of  eccle- 
siastical domination — though,  as  a  man  of  free  and  criti 
eal  spirit,  and  of  an  inborn  ability  for  penetrating  beneath 
the  surface,  he  could  not  but  find  subjects  for  endless 
blame  and  satire  in  the  members  of  those  Mendicant  Or- 
ders in  whom  his  chief  patron's  academical  ally  had  rec-  | 
ognised  the  most  formidable  obstacles  to  the  spread  of 
pure  religion — yet  all  this  would  not  justify  us  in  regard- 
ing him  as  personally  a  Wycliffite.  Indeed,  we  might  as 
well  at  once  borrow  the  phraseology  of  a  recent  respect- 


136  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

able  critic,  and  set  down  Dan  Chaucer  as  a  Puritan !  The 
policy  of  his  patron  tallied  with  the  view  which  a  fresh 
practical  mind  such  as  Chaucer's  would  naturally  be  dis- 
posed to  take  of  the  influence  of  monks  and  friars,  or  at 
least  of  those  monks  and  friars  whose  vices  and  foibles 
were  specially  prominent  in  his  eyes.  There  are  various 
reasons  why  men  oppose  established  institutions  in  the 
season  of  their  decay ;  but  a  fourteenth-century  satirist  of 
the  monks,  or  even  of  the  clergy  at  large,  was  not  neces- 
sarily a  Lollard,  any  more  than  a  nineteenth-century  ob- 
jector to  doctors'  drugs  is  necessarily  a  homoeopathist. 
p  But,  it  is  argued  by  some,  Chaucer  has  not  only  assail- 
/  ed  the  false;  he  has  likewise  extolled  the  true.  He  has 
painted  both  sides  of  the  contrast.  On  the  one  side  are 
the  Monk,  the  Friar,  and  the  rest  of  their  fellows ;  on  the 
other  is  the  Poor  Parson  of  a  Town — a  portrait,  if  not  of 
Wyclif  himself,  at  all  events  of  a  WycliflSte  priest ;  and 
in  the  Tale  or  sermon  put  in  the  Parson's  mouth  are  rec- 
ognisable beneath  the  accumulations  of  interested  editors 
some  of  the  characteristic  marks  of  WycliflSsm.  Who  is 
\  not  acquainted  with  the  exquisite  portrait  in  question  ? — 

"  A  good  man  was  there  of  religion, 
And  was  a  poore  Parson  of  a  town. 
But  rich  he  was  of  holy  thought  and  work. 
He  was  also  a  learned  man,  a  clerk  * 

That  Christes  Gospel  truly  woulde  preach ; 
And  his  parishioners  devoutly  teach. 
Benign  he  was,  and  wondrous  diligent, 
And  in  adversity  full  patient. 
And  such  he  was  y-pi'oved  ofte  sithes. 
Full  loth  he  was  to  curse  men  for  his  tithes ; 
But  rather  would  he  give,  without  doubt, 
Unto  his  poor  parishioners  about 
Of  his  ofif'ring  and  eke  of  his  substance. 
He  could  in  little  wealth  have  suffisance. 


n.]        THE  POOR  PARSON'S  PORTRAIT.        13^ 

Wide  was  his  parish,  houses  far  asunder, 
Yet  failed  he  not  for  either  rain  or  thunder 
In  sickness  nor  mischance  to  visit  all 
The  furthest  in  his  parish,  great  and  small, 
Upon  his  feet,  and  in  his  hand  a  staff. 
This  noble  ensample  to  his  sheep  he  gave, 
That  first  he  wrought,  and  afterwards  he  taught ; 
Out  of  the  Gospel  he  those  wordes  caught ; 
And  this  figure  he  added  eke  thereto, 
That  '  if  gold  ruste,  what  shall  iron  do  V 
For  if  a  priest  be  foul,  on  whom  we  trust. 
No  wonder  is  it  if  a  layman  rust ; 
And  shame  it  is,  if  that  a  priest  take  keep, 
A  foul  shepherd  to  see  and  a  clean  sheep ; 
Well  ought  a  priest  ensample  for  to  give 
By  his  cleanness,  how  that  his  sheep  should  live. 
He  put  not  out  his  benefice  on  hire, 
And  left  his  sheep  encumbered  in  the  mire, 
And  ran  to  London  unto  Sainte  Paul's, 
To  seek  himself  a  chantery  for  souls, 
Or  maintenance  with  a  brotherhood  to  hold ; 
But  dwelt  at  home,  and  kepte  well  his  fold, 
So  that  the  wolf  ne'er  made  it  to  miscarry ; 
He  was  a  shepherd  and  no  mercenary. 
And  though  he  holy  were,  and  virtuous, 
He  was  to  sinful  man  not  despitous. 
And  of  his  speech  nor  difficult  nor  digne, 
But  in  his  teaching  discreet  and  benign. 
*  For  to  draw  folk  to  heaven  by  fairness, 

By  good  ensample,  this  was  his  business : 
But  were  there  any  person  obstinate, 
What  so  he  were,  of  high  or  low  estate. 
Him  would  he  sharply  snub  at  once.     Than  this 
A  better  priest,  I  trow,  there  nowhere  is. 
He  waited  for  no  pomp  and  reverence, 
Nor  made  himself  a  spiced  conscience ; 
But  Christes  lore  and  His  Apostles'  twelve 
He  taught,  but  first  he  followed  it  himself." 
K     7  10 


138  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

The  most  striking  features  in  this  portrait  are  undoubt- 
edly those  which  are  characteristics  of  the  good  and  hum- 
Jble  working  clergyman  of  all  times;  and  some  of  these, 
accordingly,  Goldsmith  could  appropriately  borrow  for  his 
gentle  poetic  sketch  of  his  parson-brother  in  "  Sweet  Au- 
burn." /iBut  there  are  likewise  points  in  the  sketch  which 
mayoe  fairly  described  as  specially  distinctive  of  Wyclif's 
Simple  Priests — though,  as  should  be  pointed  out,  these 
Priests   could  not  themselves  be   designated  parsons   of 
towns.     Among  the  latter  features  are  the  specially  evan- 
gelical source  of  the  Parson's  learning  and  teaching ;  and 
is  outward  appearance  —  the  wandering,  staff  in  hand, 
hich  was  specially  noted  in  an  archiepiscopal  diatribe 
against  these  novel  ministers  of  the  people.     Yet  it  seems 
unnecessary  to  conclude  anything  beyond  this :  that  the 
/feature  which  Chaucer  desired  above  all  to  mark  and  insist 
/  upon  in  his  Parson^  was  the  poverty  and  humility  which 
in  him  contrasted  with  the  luxurious  self-indulgence  of  the    \ 
^^^^^onk^dXidi  the  blatant  insolence  of  the  Pardoner.     From    I 
ttirs  point  of  view  it  is  obvious  why  the  Parson  is  made   / 
brother  to  the  Ploughman;   for,  in  drawing  the  latter,  I 
V  Chaucer    cannot   have   forgotten    that   other   Ploughman  / 
whom  Langland's  poem  had  identified  with  Him  for  whose/ 
sake  Chaucer's  poor  workman  laboured  for  his  poor  neigh-/ 
hours,  with  the  readiness  always  shown  by  the  best  of  his 
class.     Nor  need  this  recognition   of  the  dignity  of  the 
lowly  surprise  us  in  Chaucer,  who  had  both  sense  of  justice 
and  sense  of  humour  enough  not  to  flatter  one  class  at  the 
expense  of  the  rest,  and  who  elsewhere  (in  the  Manciple's 
Tale)  very  forcibly  puts  the  truth  that  what  in  a  great 
man  is  called  a  coup  d'etat  is  called  by  a  much  simpler 
name  in  a  humbler  fellow-sinner. 

But  though,  in  the  Parson  of  a  Town,  Chaucer  may  not 


II.]  THE  POOR  PARSON.  139 

have  wished  to  paint  a  WycliflBte  priest — still  less  a  Lol- 
lard, under  which  designation  so  many  varieties  of  malcon- 
tents, in  addition  to  the  followers  of  Wyclif,  were  popular- 
ly included  —  yet  his  eyes  and  ears  were  open;  and  he 
knew  well  enough  what  the  world  and  its  children  are  at 
all  times  apt  to  call  those  who  are  not  ashamed  of  their 
religion,  as  well  as  those  who  make  too  conscious  a  profes- 
sion of  it.  The  world  called  them  Lollards  at  the  close  of 
the  fourteenth  century,  and  it  called  them  Puritans  at  the 
close  of  the  sixteenth,  and  Methodists  at  the  close  of  the 
eighteenth.  Doubtless  the  vintners  and  the  shipmen  of 
Chaucer's  day,  the  patrons  and  purveyors  of  the  playhouse 
in  Ben  Jonson's,  the  fox-hunting  squires  and  town  wits 
of  Cowper's,  like  their  successors  after  them,  were  not 
specially  anxious  to  distinguish  nicely  between  more  or 
less  abominable  varieties  of  saintliness.  Hence,  when  Mas- 
ter Harry  Bailly's  tremendous  oaths  produce  the  gentlest 
of  protests  from  the  Parson^  the  jovial  Host  incontinently 
"  smells  a  Lollard  in  the  wind,"  and  predicts  (with  a  fur- 
ther flow  of  expletives)  that  there  is  a  sermon  to  follow. 
Whereupon  the  Shipman  protests  not  less  characteristi- 
cally : — 

"  *Nay,  by  my  father's  soul,  that  shall  he  not,' 
Saide  the  Shipman ;  *  here  shall  he  not  preach : 
He  shall  no  gospel  here  explain  or  teach. 
We  all  believe  in  the  great  God,'  quoth  he ; 
'  He  woulde  sowe  some  difficulty. 
Or  springe  cockle  in  our  cleane  corn.'  "  ' 

After  each  of  the  pilgrims  except  the  Parson  has  told  a 
tale  (so  that  obviously  Chaucer  designed  one  of  the  divi- 
sions of  his  work  to  close  with  the  Parson's),  he  is  again 

'  The  nickname  Lollards  was  erroneously  derived  from  lolia  (tares). 


140  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

called  upon  by  the  Host.  Hereupon  appealing  to  the  un- 
doubtedly evangelical  and,  it  might  without  straining  be 
said,  Wycliffite  authority  of  Timothy,  he  promises  as  his 
contribution  a  "  merry  tale  in  prose,"  which  proves  to  con- 
sist of  a  moral  discourse.  In  its  extant  form  the  Parson^ s 
Tale  contains,  by  the  side  of  much  that  might  suitably 
have  come  from  a  Wycliffite  teacher,  much  of  a  directly 
opposite  nature.  For  not  only  is  the  necessity  of  certain 
sacramental  usages  to  which  Wyclif  strongly  objected  in- 
sisted upon,  but  the  spoliation  of  Church  property  is  unct- 
uously inveighed  against  as  a  species  of  one  of  the  car- 
dinal sins.  No  enquiry  could  satisfactorily  establish  how 
much  of  this  was  taken  over  or  introduced  into  the  Par- 
son's  Tale  by  Chaucer  himself.  But  one  would  fain  at 
least  claim  for  him  a  passage  in  perfect  harmony  with  the 
character  drawn  of  the  Parson  in  the  Prologue — a  passage 
(already  cited  in  part  in  the  opening  section  of  the  present 
essay)  where  the  poet  advocates  the  cause  of  the  poor  in 
words  which,  simple  as  they  are,  deserve  to  be  quoted  side 
by  side  with  that  immortal  character  itself.  The  conclud- 
ing lines  may  therefore  be  cited  here : — 

"  Think  also  that  of  the  same  seed  of  which  churls  spring,  of  the 
same  seed  spring  lords ;  as  well  may  the  churl  be  saved  as  the  lord. 
Wherefore  I  counsel  thee,  do  just  so  with  thy  churl  as  thou  wouldest 
thy  lord  did  with  thee,  if  thou  wert  in  his  plight.  A  very  sinful  man 
is  a  churl  as  towards  sin.  I  counsel  thee  certainly,  thou  lord,  that 
thou  work  in  such  wise  with  thy  churls  that  they  rather  love  thee 
than  dread  thee.  I  know  well,  where  there  is  degree  above  degree, 
it  is  reasonable  that  men  should  do  their  duty  where  it  is  due ;  but 
of  a  certainty,  extortions,  and  despite  of  our  underlings,  are  damnable." 

In  sum,  the  Parson's  Tale  cannot,  any  more  than  the 
character  of  the  Parson  in  the  Prologue,  be  interpreted  as 
proving  Chaucer  to  have  been  a  Wycliffite.     But  the  one 


II.]  THE  PARSON'S  TALE.  141 

as  well  as  the  other  proves  him  to  have  perceived  much  of 
what  was  noblest  in  the  Wycliffite  movement,  and  much 
of  what  was  ignoblest  in  the  reception  with  which  it  met 
at  the  hands  of  worldlings  —  before,  with  the  aid  of  the 
State,  the  Church  finally  succeeded  in  crushing  it,  to  all 
appearance,  out  of  existence. 

The  Parson^ s  Tale  contains  a  few  vigorous  touches,  in 
addition  to  the  fine  passage  quoted,  which  make  it  dif- 
ficult to  deny  that  Chaucer's  hand  was  concerned  in  it. 
The  inconsistency  between  the  religious  learning  ascribed 
to  the  Parson  and  a  passage  in  the  Tahy  where  the  author 
leaves  certain  things  to  be  settled  by  divines,  will  not  be 
held  of  much  account.  The  most  probable  conjecture 
seems,  therefore,  to  be  that  the  discourse  has  come  down 
to  us  in  a  mutilated  form.  This  may  be  due  to  the  Tale 
having  remained  unfinished  at  the  time  of  Chaucer's  death ; 
in  which  case  it  would  form  last  words  of  no  unfitting 
kind.  As  for  the  actual  last  words  of  the  Canterbury 
Tales  —  the  so  -  called  Prayer  of  Chaucer  —  it  would  be 
unbearable  to  have  to  accept  them  as  genuine.  For  in 
these  the  poet,  while  praying  for  the  forgiveness  of  sins, 
is  made  specially  to  entreat  the  Divine  pardon  for  his 
"translations  and  inditing  in  worldly  vanities,"  which  he 
"  revokes  in  his  retractions."  These  include,  besides  the 
Book  of  the  Leo  (doubtless  a  translation  or  adaptation 
from  Machault)  and  many  other  books  which  the  writer 
forgets,  and  "  many  a  song  and  many  a  lecherous  lay," 
all  the  principal  poetical  works  of  Chaucer  (with  the 
exception  of  the  Romaunt  of  the  Rose)  discussed  in  this 
essay.  On  the  other  hand,  he  offers  thanks  for  having 
had  the  grace  given  him  to  compose  his  translation  of 
Boethius  and  other  moral  and  devotional  works.  There 
is,  to  be  sure,  no  actual  evidence  to  decide  in  either  way 


142  CHAUCER.  [chap.  ii. 

the  question  as  to  the  genuineness  of  this  Prayer^  which 
is  entirely  one  of  internal  probability.  Those  who  will 
may  believe  that  the  monks,  who  were  the  landlords  of 
Chaucer's  house  at  Westminster,  had  in  one  way  or  the 
other  obtained  a  controlling  influence  over  his  mind. 
Stranger  things  than  this  have  happened ;  but  one  pre- 
fers to  believe  that  the  poet  of  the  Canterbury  Tales  re- 
mained master  of  himself  to  the  last.  He  had  written 
much  which  a  dying  man  might  regret;  but  it  would  be 
sad  to  have  to  think  that,  "  because  of  humility,"  he  bore 
false  witness  at  the  last  against  an  immortal  part  of  him- 
self— his  poetic  genius. 


CHAPTER  HL 

CHARACTERISTICS    OF    CHAUCER    AND    OF    HIS    POiSTRT. 

Thus,  then,  Chaucer  had  passed  away  —  whether  in  good 
or  in  evil  odour  with  the  powerful  interest  with  which 
John  of  Gaunt's  son  had  entered  into  his  unwritten  con- 
cordate,  after  all,  matters  but  little  now.  He  is  no  dim 
shadow  to  us,  even  in  his  outward  presence ;  for  we  pos- 
sess sufficient  materials  from  which  to  picture  to  ourselves 
with  good  assurance  what  manner  of  man  he  was.  Ce- 
de ve  painted  from  memory,  on  the  margin  of  one  of  his 
own  works,  a  portrait  of  his  "  worthy  master,"  over  against 
a  passage  in  which,  after  praying  the  Blessed  Virgin  to 
intercede  for  the  eternal  happiness  of  one  who  had  written 
so  much  in  her  honour,  he  proceeds  as  follows : — 

"  Although  his  life  be  quenched,  the  resemblance 
Of  him  hath  in  me  so  fresh  liveliness, 
That  to  put  other  men  in  remembrance 
Of  his  person  I  have  here  his  likeness 
Made,  to  this  end  in  very  soothfastness, 
That  they  that  have  of  him  lost  thought  and  mind 
May  by  the  painting  here  again  him  find." 

In  this  portrait,  in  which  the  experienced  eye  of  Sir  Har- 
ris Nicolas  sees  "  incomparably  the  best  portrait  of  Chau- 
cer yet  discovered,"  he  appears  as  an  elderly  rather  than 
aged  man,  clad  in  dark  gown  and  hood — the  latter  of  the 


144  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

fashion  so  familiar  to  us  from  this  very  picture,  and  from 
the  well-known  one  of  Chaucer's  last  patron,  King  Henry 
IV.  His  attitude  in  this  likeness  is  that  of  a  quiet  talker, 
with  downcast  eyes,  but  sufficiently  erect  bearing  of  body. 
One  arm  is  extended,  and  seems  to  be  gently  pointing 
some  observation  which  has  just  issued  from  the  poet's 
lips.  The  other  holds  a  rosary,  which  may  be  significant 
of  the  piety  attributed  to  Chaucer  by  Occleve,  or  may  be 
a  mere  ordinary  accompaniment  of  conversation,  as  it  is  in 
parts  of  Greece  to  the  present  day.  The  features  are  mild 
but  expressive,  with  just  a  suspicion  —  certainly  no  more 
—of  saturnine  or  sarcastic  humour.  The  lips  are  full,  and 
the  nose  is  what  is  called  good  by  the  learned  in  such  mat- 
ters. Several  other  early  portraits  of  Chaucer  exist,  all  of 
which  are  stated  to  bear  much  resemblance  to  one  an- 
other. Among  them  is  one  in  an  early  if  not  contempo- 
rary copy  of  Occleve's  poems,  full-length,  and  superscribed 
by  the  hand  which  wrote  the  manuscript.  In  another, 
which  is  extremely  quaint,  he  appears  on  horseback,  in 
commemoration  of  his  ride  to  Canterbury,  and  is  repre- 
sented as  short  of  stature,  in  accordance  with  the  descrip- 
tion of  himself  in  the  Canterbury  Tales. 

For,  as  it  fortunately  happens,  he  has  drawn  his  likeness 
for  us  with  his  own  hand,  as  he  appeared  on  the  occasion 
to  that  most  free-spoken  of  observers  and  most  personal  of 
critics,  the  host  of  the  Tabard,  the  "  cock "  and  marshal 
of  the  company  of  pilgrims.  The  fellow-travellers  had 
just  been  wonderfully  sobered  (as  well  they  might  be)  by 
the  piteous  tale  of  the  Prioress  concerning  the  little  cler- 
gy-boy— how,  after  the  wicked  Jews  had  cut  his  throat  be- 
cause he  ever  sang  0  Alma  Bedemptoris,  and  had  cast  him 
into  a  pit,  he  was  found  there  by  his  mother  loudly  giving 
forth  the  hymn  in  honour  of  the  Blessed  Virgin  which  ha 


m.]  CHARACTERISTICS  OF  CHAUCER.  145 

had  loved  so  well.  Master  Harry  Bailly  was,  as  in  duty 
bound,  the  first  to  interrupt  by  a  string  of  jests  the  silence 
which  had  ensued : — 

"  And  then  at  first  he  looked  upon  me, 
And  saide  thus :  '  What  man  art  thou  ?'  quoth  he ; 
'  Thou  lookest  as  thou  wouldest  find  a  hare, 
For  ever  upon  the  ground  I  see  thee  stare. 
Approach  more  near,  and  looke  merrily  ! 
Now  'ware  you,  sirs,  and  let  this  man  have  space. 
He  in  the  waist  is  shaped  as  well  as  I ; 
This  were  a  puppet  in  an  arm  to  embrace 
For  any  woman,  small  and  fair  of  face. 
He  seemeth  elfish  by  his  countenance, 
For  unto  no  wight  doth  he  dalliance.'  " 

From  this  passage  we  may  gather,  not  only  that  Chaucer 
was,  as  the  Host  of  the  Tabard's  transparent  self -irony  im- 
plies, small  of  stature  and  slender,  but  that  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  be  twitted  on  account  of  the  abstracted  or  ab- 
sent look  which  so  often  tempts  children  of  the  world  to 
offer  its  wearer  a  penny  for  his  thoughts.  For  "  elfish  " 
means  bewitched  by  the  elves,  and  hence  vacant  or  absent 
in  demeanour. 

It  is  thus,  with  a  few  modest  but  manifestly  truthful 
touches,  that  Chaucer,  after  the  manner  of  certain  great 
painters,  introduces  his  own  figure  into  a  quiet  corner  of 
his  crowded  canvas.  But  mere  outward  liketiess  is  of  lit- 
tle moment,  and  it  is  a  more  interesting  enquiry  whether 
there  are  any  personal  characteristics  of  another  sort, 
which  it  is  possible  with  safety  to  ascribe  to  him,  and 
which  must  be,  in  a  greater  or  less  degree,  connected  with 
the  distinctive  qualities  of  his  literary  genius ;  for  in  truth 
it  is  but  a  sorry  makeshift  of  literary  biographers  to  seek 
to  divide  a  man  who  is  an  author  into  two  separate  be- 
7* 


146  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

ings,  in  order  to  avoid  tlie  conversely  fallacious  procedure 
of  accounting  for  everything  ^vhich  an  author  has  writ- 
ten by  something  which  the  man  has  done  or  been  in- 
clined to  do.  What  true  poet  has  sought  to  hide,  or  suc- 
ceeded in  hiding,  his  moral  nature  from  his  muse  ?  None 
in  the  entire  band,  from  Petrarch  to  Villon,  and  least  of  all 
the  poet  whose  song,  like  so  much  of  Chaucer's,  seems 
freshly  derived  from  Nature's  own  inspiration. 

One  very  pleasing  quality  in  Chaucer  must  have  been 
his  modesty.     In  the  course  of  his  life  this  may  have 
helped  to  recommend  him  to  patrons  so  many  and  so  va- 
rious, and  to  make  him  the  useful  and  trustworthy  agent 
that  he  evidently  became  for  confidential  missions  abroad. 
Physically,  as  has  been  seen,  he  represents  himself  as  prone 
to  the  habit  of  casting  his  eyes  on  the  ground;  and  we 
may  feel  tolerably  sure  that  to  this  external  manner  corre- 
sponded a  quiet,  observant  disposition,  such  as  that  which 
may  be  held  to  have  distinguished  the  greatest  of  Chau- 
cer's successors  among  English  poets.     To  us,  of  course, 
this  quality  of  modesty  in  Chaucer  makes  itself  principal- 
ly manifest  in   the  opinion  which  he  incidentally  shows 
himself  to  entertain  concerning  his  own  rank  and  claims  as 
an  author.     Herein,  as  in  many  other  points,  a  contrast  is 
noticeable  between  him  and  the  great  Italian  masters,  who 
were  so  sensitive  as  to  the  esteem  in  which  they  and  their 
poetry  were  held.     Who  could  fancy   Chaucer  crowned 
with  laurel,  like   Petrarch,  or   even,  like  Dante,  speaking 
with  proud  humility  of  "  the  beautiful  style  that  has  done 
honour  to  him,"  while  acknowledging  his  obligation  for  it 
to  a  great  predecessor?    Chaucer  again  and  again  disclaims 
all  boasts  of  perfection,  or  pretensions  to  pre-eminence,  as 
a  poet.     His  Canterbury  Pilgrims  have  in  his  name  to 
disavow,  like  Persius,  having  slept  on  Mount  Parnassus,  or 


111.]  CHARACTERISTICS  OF  CHAUCER.  147 

possessing  "  rhetoric  "  enough  to  describe  a  heroine's  beau- 
ty ;  and  he  openly  allows  that  his  spirit  grows  dull  as  he 
grows  older,  and  that  he  finds  a  difficulty  as  a  translator  in 
matching  his  rhyraes  to  his  French  original.  He  acknowl- 
edges as  incontestable  the  superiority  of  the  poets  of  clas- 
sical antiquity  : — 

"...  Little  book,  no  writing  thou  envy', 
But  subject  be  to  all  true  poesy, 
And  kiss  the  steps,  where'er  thou  seest  space 
Of  Virgil,  Ovid,  Homer,  Lucan,  Stace.''^ 

But  more  than  this.  In  the  House  of  Fame  he  expressly 
disclaims  having  in  his  light  and  imperfect  verse  sought 
to  pretend  to  "  mastery "  in  the  art  poetical ;  and  in  a 
charmingly  expressed  passage  of  the  Prologue  to  the  Le- 
gend of  Good  Women  he  describes  himself  as  merely  follow- 
ing in  the  wake  of  those  who  have  already  reaped  the  har- 
vest of  amorous  song,  and  have  carried  away  the  corn : — 

*'  And  I  come  after,  gleaning  here  and  there. 
And  am  full  glad  if  I  can  find  an  ear 
Of  any  goodly  word  that  ye  have  left." 

Modesty  of  this  stamp  is  perfectly  compatible  with  a  cer- 
tain self-consciousness  which  is  hardly  ever  absent  from 
greatness,  and  which  at  all  events  supplies  a  stimulus  not 
easily  dispensed  with  except  by  sustained  effort  on  the 
part  of  a  poet.  The  two  qualities  seem  naturally  to  com- 
bine into  that  self-containedness  (very  different  from  self- 
contentedness)  which  distinguishes  Chaucer,  and  which 
helps  to  give  to  his  writings  a  manliness  of  tone,  the  di- 
rect opposite  of  the  irretentive  querulousness  found  in  so 
great  a  number  of  poets  in  all  times.     He  cannot,  indeed, 

^  Statius. 


148  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

be  said  to  maintain  an  absolute  reserve  concerning  himself 
and  his  affairs  in  his  writings ;  but  as  he  grows  older,  he 
seems  to  become  less  and  less  inclined  to  take  the  public 
into  his  confidence,  or  to  speak  of  himself  except  in  a  pleas- 
antly light  and  incidental  fashion.  And  in  the  same  spirit 
he  seems,  without  ever  folding  his  hands  in  his  lap,  or 
ceasing  to  be  a  busy  man  and  an  assiduous  author,  to  have 
grown  indifferent  to  the  lack  of  brilliant  success  in  life, 
whether  as  a  man  of  letters  or  otherwise.  So  at  least  one 
seems  justified  in  interpreting  a  remarkable  passage  in  the 
House  of  Fame,  the  poem  in  which,  perhaps,  Chaucer  al- 
lows us  to  see  more  deeply  into  his  mind  than  in  any 
other.  After  surveying  the  various  company  of  those  who 
had  come  as  suitors  for  the  favours  of  Fame,  he  tells  us 
how  it  seemed  to  him  (in  his  long  December  dream)  that 
some  one  spoke  to  him  in  a  kindly  way, 

"  And  saide  :  '  Friend,  what  is  thy  name  ? 
Art  thou  come  hither  to  have  fame  V 
*  Nay,  forsoothe,  friend !'  quoth  I ; 
'  I  came  not  hither  (grand  merci !) 
For  no  such  cause,  by  my  head  ! 
Sufficeth  me,  as  I  were  dead. 
That  no  wight  have  my  name  in  hand. 
I  wot  myself  best  how  I  stand  ; 
For  what  I  suffer,  or  what  I  think, 
I  will  myselfe  all  it  drink. 
Or  at  least  the  greater  part 
As  far  forth  as  I  know  my  art.'  " 

With  this  modest  but  manly  self-possession  we  shall 
not  go  far  wrong  in  connecting  what  seems  another  very 
distinctly  marked  feature  of  Chaucer's  inner  nature.  He 
seems  to  have  arrived  at  a  clear  recognition  of  the  truth 
with  which  Goethe  humorously  comforted  Eckermann  in 
the  shape  of  the  proverbial  saying,  "Care  has  been  taken 


ui.]  CHARACTERISTICS  OF  CHAUCER.  149 

that  the  trees  shall  not  grow  into  the  sky."  Chaucer's, 
there  is  every  reason  to  believe,  was  a  contented  faith,  as 
far  removed  from  self -torturing  unrest  as  from  childish 
credulity.  Hence  his  refusal  to  trouble  himself,  now  that 
he  has  arrived  at  a  good  age,  with  original  research  as  to 
the  constellations.  (The  passage  is  all  the  more  significant 
since  Chaucer,  as  has  been  seen,  actually  possessed  a  very 
respectable  knowledge  of  astronomy.)  That  winged  en- 
cyclopaedia, the  Eagle,  has  just  been  regretting  the  poet's 
unwillingness  to  learn  the  position  of  the  Great  and  the 
Little  Bear,  Castor  and  Pollux,  and  the  rest,  concerning 
which  at  present  he  does  not  know  where  they  stand. 
But  he  replies,  "  No  matter ! 

"  * ...  It  is  no  need  ; 
I  trust  as  well  (so  God  me  speed !) 
Them  that  write  of  this  matter, 
As  though  I  knew  their  places  there.'  '* 

Moreover,  as  he  says  (probably  without  implying  any  spe- 
cial allegorical  meaning),  they  seem  so  bright  that  it  would 
destroy  my  eyes  to  look  upon  them.  Personal  inspection, 
in  his  opinion,  was  not  necessary  for  a  faith  which  at  some 
times  may,  and  at  others  must,  take  the  place  of  knowl- 
edge ;  for  we  find  him,  at  the  opening  of  the  Prologue  to 
the  Legend  of  Good  Women,  in  a  passage  the  tone  of 
which  should  not  be  taken  to  imply  less  than  its  words 
express,  writing  as  follows : — 

"A  thousand  times  I  have  heard  men  tell, 
That  there  is  joy  in  heaven,  and  pain  in  hell ; 
And  I  accorde  well  that  it  is  so. 
But  natheless,  yet  wot  I  well  also, 
That  there  is  none  doth  in  this  country  dwell 
That  either  hath  in  heaven  been  or  hell, 


160  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

Or  any  other  way  could  of  it  know, 
But  that  he  heard,  or  found  it  written  so, 
For  by  assay  may  no  man  proof  receive. 

But  God  forbid  that  men  should  not  believe 
More  things  than  they  have  ever  seen  with  eye ! 
Men  shall  not  fancy  everything  a  lie 
Unless  themselves  it  see,  or  else  it  do; 
For,  God  wot,  not  the  less  a  thing  is  true, 
Though  every  wight  may  not  it  chance  to  see." 

The  central  thought  of  these  lines,  though  it  afterwards 
receives  a  narrower  and  more  commonplace  application, 
is  no  other  than  that  which  has  been  so  splendidly  ex- 
pressed by  Spenser  in  the  couplet : — 

"  Why  then  should  witless  man  so  much  misween 
That  nothing  is  but  that  which  he  hath  seen  ?" 


^D 


The  negative  result  produced  in  Chaucer's  mind  by  this 
fiiin  but  placid  way  of  regarding  matters  of  faith  was  a 
distrust  of  astrology,  alchemy,  and  all  the  superstitions 
which  in  the  Parson's  Tale  are  noticed  as  condemned  by 
the  Church.  This  distrust  on  Chaucer's  part  requires  no 
further  illustration  after  what  has  been  said  elsewhere;  it 
would  have  been  well  for  his  age  if  all  its  children  had 
been  as  clear-sighted  in  these  matters  as  he,  to  whom  the 
practices  connected  with  these  delusive  sciences  seemed, 
and  justly  so  from  his  point  of  view,  not  less  impious 
than  futile.  His  Canon  Yeoman'' s  Tale^  a  story  of  im- 
posture so  vividly  dramatic  in  its  catastrophe  as  to  have 
.suggested  to  Ben  Jonson  one  of  the  most  effective  pas- 
sabres  in  his  comedv  The  Alchemist,  concludes  with  a  moral 
of  unmistakeable  solemnity  against  the  sinfulness,  as  w^ell 
as  uselessness,  of  "  multiplying  "  (making  gold  by  the  arts 
of  alchemy) : — 


III.]  CHARACTERISTICS  OF  CHAUCER.  151 

"...  Whoso  maketh  God  his  adversary, 
As  for  to  work  anything  in  contrary 
Unto  His  will,  certes  ne'er  shall  he  thrive, 
Though  that  he  multiply  through  all  his  life." 

But  equally  unmistakeable  is  the  positive  side  of  this 
frame  of  mind  in  such  a  passage  as  the  following — which 
is  one  of  those  belonging  to  Chaucer  himself,  and  not 
taken  from  his  French  original  —  in  The  Man  of  Law's 
Tale.  The  narrator  is  speaking  of  the  voyage  of  Con- 
stance, after  her  escape  from  the  massacre  in  which,  at  a 
feast,  all  her  fellow-Christians  had  been  killed,  and  of  how 
she  was  borne  by  the  "  wild  wave  "  from  "  Surrey  "  (Syria) 
to  the  Northumbrian  shore : — 

"Here  men  might  aske,  why  she  was  not  slain? 
Eke  at  the  feast  who  might  her  body  save  ? 
And  I  answere  that  demand  again : 
Who  saved  Daniel  in  th'  horrible  cave, 
When  every  wight  save  him,  master  or  knave, 
The  lion  ate — before  he  could  depart  ? 
No  wight  but  God,  whom  he  bare  in  his  heart." 

"  In  her,"  he  continues,  "God  desired  to  show  His  mirac- 
ulous power,  so  that  we  should  see  His  mighty  works; 
for  Christ,  in  whom  we  have  a  remedy  for  every  ill,  often 
by  means  of  His  own  does  things  for  ends  of  His  own, 
which  are  obscure  to  the  wit  of  man,  incapable,  by  reason 
of  our  ignorance,  of  understanding  His  wise  providence. 
But  since  Constance  was  not  slain  at  the  feast,  it  might  be 
asked :  Who  kept  her  from  drowning  in  the  sea  ?  Who, 
then,  kept  Jonas  in  the  belly  of  the  whale  till  he  was 
spouted  up  at  Ninive?  Well  do  we  know  it  was  no  one 
but  He  who  kept  the  Hebrew  people  from  drowning  in 
the  waters,  and  made  them  to  pass  through  the  sea  with 


1B2  CHAUCER.  [chap 

dry  feet.  Who  bade  the  four  spirits  of  the-  tempest, 
which  have  the  power  to  trouble  land  and  sea,  north  and 
south,  and  west  and  east,  vex  neither  sea  nor  land  nor  the 
trees  that  grow  on  it?  Truly  these  things  were  ordered 
by  Him  who  kept  this  woman  safe  from  the  tempest,  as 
well  when  she  awoke  as  when  she  slept.  But  whence 
mio-ht  this  woman  have  meat  and  drink,  and  how  could 
her  sustenance  last  out  to  her  for  three  years  and  more? 
Who,  then,  fed  Saint  Mary  the  Egyptian  in  the  cavern  or 
in  the  desert?  Assuredly  no  one  but  Christ.  It  was  a 
great  miracle  to  feed  five  thousand  folk  with  five  loaves 
and  two  fishes ;  but  God  in  their  great  need  sent  to  them 
abundance." 

As  to  the  sentiments  and  opinions  of  Chaucer,  then, 
on  matters  such  as  these,  we  can  entertain  no  reasonable 
doubt.     But  we  are  altogether  too  ill  acquainted  with  the 
details  of  his  personal  life,  and  with  the  motives  which 
contributed  to  determine  its  course,  to  be  able  to  arrive  at 
any  valid  conclusions  as  to  the  way  in  which  his  principles 
affected  his  conduct.     Enough  has  been  already  said  con- 
cerning the  attitude  seemingly  observed  by  him  towards 
the  great  public  questions,  and  the  great  historical  events, 
of  his  day.    If  he  had  strong  political  opinions  of  his  own, 
or  strong  personal  views  on  questions  either  of  ecclesiasti- 
cal policy  or  of  religious  doctrine — in  which  assumptions 
there  seems  nothing  probable — he,  at  all  events,  did  not 
wear  his  heart  on  his  sleeve,  or  use  his  poetry,  allegorical 
or  otherwise,  as  a  vehicle  of  his  wishes,  hopes,  or  fears  on 
these  heads.     The  true  breath  of  freedom  could  hardly  be 
expected  to  blow  through  the  precincts  of  a  Plantagenet 
court.     If  Chaucer  could  write  the  pretty  lines  in  the 
Manciple's  Tale  about  the  caged  bird  and  its  uncontrol- 
lable desire  for  liberty,  his  contemporary  Barbour  could 


III.]  CHARACTERISTICS  OF  CHAUCER.  163 

apoBtrophise  Freedom  itself  as  a  noble  thing,  in  words 
the  simple  manliness  of  which  stirs  the  blood  after  a  very 
different  fashion.     Concerning  his  domestic  relations,  we 
may  regard  it  as  virtually  certain  that  he  was  unhappy  as 
a  husband,  though  tender  and  affectionate  as   a  father. 
Considering  how  vast  a  proportion  of  the  satire  of  all 
times — but  more  especially  that  of  the  Middle  Ages,  and 
in  these  again  pre-eminently  of  the  period  of  European 
literature  which  took  its  tone  from  Jean  de  Meung — is  di- 
rected against  woman  and  against  married  life,  it  would  be 
difficult  to  decide  how  much  of  the  irony,  sarcasm,  and  fun 
lavished  by  Chaucer  on  these  themes  is  due  to  a  fashion 
with  which  he  readily  fell  in,  and  how  much  to  the  im- 
pulse of  personal  feeling.     A  perfect  anthology,  or  per- 
haps one  should  rather  say,  a  complete  herbarium,  might 
be  collected  from  his  works  of  samples  of  these  attacks  on 
ivomen.     He  has  manifestly  made  a  careful  study  of  their 
ways,  with  which  he  now  and  then  betrays  that  curiously 
intimate  acquaintance  to  which  we  are  accustomed  in  a 
Richardson  or  a  Balzac.     How  accurate  are  such  incidental 
remarks  as  this,  that  women  are  "  full  measurable  "  in  such 
matters  as  sleep  —  not  caring  for  so  much  of  it  at  a  time 
as  men  do  !     How  wonderfully  natural  is  the  description  of 
Cressid's  bevy  of  lady-visitors,  attracted  by  the  news  that 
she  is  shortly  to  be  surrendered  to  the  Greeks,  and  of  the 
"nice  vanity" — ^.  e.,  foolish  emptiness  —  of  their  consola- 
■  tory  gossip.     "As  men  see  in  town,  and  all  about,  that 
women  are  accustomed  to  visit  their  friends,"  so  a  swarm 
of  ladies  came  to  Cressid,  "  and  sat  themselves  down,  and 
said  as  I  shall  tell.     *  I  am  delighted,'  says  one,  *  that  you 
will  so  soon  see  your  father.'     '  Indeed  I  am  not  so  de- 
lighted,' says  another, '  for  we  have  not  seen  half  enough 

of  her  since  she  has  been  at  Troy.'     *  I  do  hope,'  quoth 
L  11 


154  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

the  third,  '  that  she  will  bring  us  back  peace  with  her ;  in 
which  case  may  Almighty  God  guide  her  on  her  departure/ 
And  Cressid  heard  these  words  and  womanish  things  as  if 
she  were  far  away ;  for  she  was  burning  all  the  time  with 
another  passion  than  any  of  which  they  knew ;  so  that  she 
almost  felt  her  heart  die  for  woe,  and  for  weariness  of  that 
company."  But  his  satire  against  women  is  rarely  so  in- 
nocent as  this ;  and  though  several  ladies  take  part  in  the 
Canterbury  Pilgrimage,  yet  pilgrim  after  pilgrim  has  his 
saw  or  jest  against  their  sex.  The  courteous  Knight  can- 
not refrain  from  the  generalisation  that  women  all  follow 
the  favour  of  fortune.  The  Summoner,  who  is  of  a  less 
scrupulous  sort,  introduces  a  diatribe  against  women's  pas- 
sionate love  of  vengeance;  andjjao  Shipman  acanonfri  a 
^Wy  w^irh  jpf^ires  no  such  addition_bjL-aa--eaumeratiQn 
of  Jtfiii^^-iaiSujjla^foibles^  But  the  climax  is  reached  in 
the  confessions  of  the  Wife  of  Bath,  who  quite  unhesitat- 
ingly says  that  women  are  best  won  by  flattery  and  busy 
attentions ;  that  when  w^on  they  desire  to  have  the  sover- 
eignty over  their  husbands,  and  that  they  tell  untruths  and 
swear  to  them  with  twice  the  boldness  of  men ;  while  as 
to  the  power  of  their  tongue,  she  quotes  the  second-hand 
authority  of  her  fifth  husband  for  the  saying  that  it  is  bet- 
ter to  dwell  with  a  lion  or  a  foul  dragon  than  with  a  wom- 
an accustomed  to  chide.  It  is  true  that  this  same  Wife  of 
Bath  also  observes  with  an  effective  tu  quoque: — 

"By  God,  if  women  had  but  written  stories, 
As  clerkes  have  within  their  oratories, 
They  would  have  writ  of  men  more  wickedness 
Than  all  the  race  of  Adam  may  redress ;" 

and  the  Legend  of  Good  Women  seems,  in  point  of  fact, 
to  have  been  intended  to  offer  some  such  kind  of  amends 


III.]  '  CHARACTERISTICS  OF  CHAUCER.  155 

as  is  here  declared  to  be  called  for.  But  the  balance  still 
remains  heavy  against  the  poet's  sentiments  of  gallantry 
and  respect  for  women.  It  should,  at  the  same  time,  be 
remembered  that  among  the  Canterbury  Tales  the  two 
which  are  of  their  kind  the  most  effective  constitute  trib- 
utes to  the  most  distinctively  feminine  and  wifely  virtue 
of  fidelity.  Moreover,  when  coming  from  such  personages 
as  the  pilgrims  who  narrate  the  Tales  in  question,  the 
praise  of  women  has  special  significance  and  value.  The 
Merchant  and  the  Shlpman  may  indulge  in  facetious  or 
coarse  jibes  against  wives  and  their  behaviour;  but  the 
Man  of  Laiv^  full  of  grave  experience  of  the  world,  is  a 
witness  above  suspicion  to  the  womanly  virtue  of  which 
his  narrative  celebrates  so  illustrious  an  example,  while  the 
Clerk  of  Oxford  has  in  his  cloistered  solitude,  where  all 
womanly  blandishments  are  unknown,  come  to  the  con- 
clusion that 

"  Men  speak  of  Job,  most  for  his  humbleness, 
As  clerkes,  when  they  list,  can  well  indite, 
Of  men  in  special ;  but,  in  truthfulness, 
Though  praise  by  clerks  of  women  be  but  slight, 
No  man  in  humbleness  can  him  acquit 
As  women  can,  nor  can  be  half  so  true 
As  women  are,  unless  all  things  be  new." 

As  to  marriage,  Chaucer  may  be  said  generally  to  treat  it 
in  that  style  of  laughing  with  a  wry  mouth,  which  has 
from  time  immemorial  been  affected  both  in  comic  writing- 
and  on  the  comic  stage,  but  which  in  the  end  even  the 
most  determined  old  bachelor  feels  an  occasional  inclina- 
tion to  consider  monotonous. 

In  all  this,  however,  it  is  obvious  that  something  at  least 
must  be  set  down  to  conventionality.  Yet  the  best  part 
of  Chaucer's   nature,  it  is   hardly   necessary  to   say,  was 


166  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

neither  conventional  nor  commonplace.  He  was  not,  we 
may  rest  assured,  one  of  that  numerous  class  which  in  his 
days,  as  it  does  in  ours,  composed  the  population  of  the 
land  of  Philistia — the  persons  so  well  defined  by  the  Scot- 
tish poet,  Sir  David  Lyndsay  (himself  a  courtier  of  the 
noblest  type) : — 

"  Who  fixed  have  their  hearts  and  whole  intents 
On  sensual  lust,  on  dignity,  and  rents." 

Doubtless  Chaucer  was  a  man  of  practical  good  sense, 
desirous  of  suitable  employment  and  of  a  sufficient  in- 
come ;  nor  can  we  suppose  him  to  have  been  one  of  those 
who  look  upon  social  life  and  its  enjoyments  with  a  jaun- 
diced eye,  or  who,  absorbed  in  things  which  are  not  of 
this  world,  avert  their  gaze  from  it  altogether.  But  it  is 
hardly  possible  that  rank  and  position  should  have  been 
valued  on  their  own  account  by  one  who  so  repeatedly 
recurs  to  his  ideal  of  the  true  gentleman,  as  to  a  concep- 
tion dissociated  from  mere  outward  circumstances,  and 
more  particularly  independent  of  birth  or  inherited  wealth. 
At  times,  we  know,  men  find  what  they  seek ;  and  so 
Chaucer  found  in  Boethius  and  in  Guillaume  de  Lorris 
that  conception  which  he  both  translates  and  reproduces, 
besides  repeating  it  in  a  little  Ballade,  probably  written  by 
him  in  the  last  decennium  of  his  life.  By  far  the  best- 
known  and  the  finest  of  these  passages  is  that  in  the  Wife 
of  Bath's  Tale,  which  follows  the  round  assertion  that  the 
"arrogance"  against  which  it  protests  is  not  worth  a  hen; 
and  which  is  followed  by  an  appeal  to  a  parallel  passage 
in  Dante : — 

"  Look,  who  that  is  most  virtuous  alway 
Privy  and  open,  and  most  intendeth  aye 


III.]  CHARACTERISTICS  OF  CHAUCER.  157 

To  do  the  gentle  deedes  that  he  can, 

Take  him  for  the  greatest  gentleman. 

Christ  wills  we  claim  of  Him  our  gentleness, 

Not  of  our  elders  for  their  old  riches. 

For  though  they  give  us  all  their  heritage 

Through  which  we  claim  to  be  of  high  parage, 

Yet  may  they  not  bequeathe  for  no  thing — 

To  none  of  us — their  virtuous  living, 

That  made  them  gentlemen  y-call^d  be, 

And  bade  us  follow  them  in  such  degree. 

Well  can  the  wise  poet  of  Florence, 

That  Dante  highte,  speak  of  this  sentence ; 

Lo,  in  such  manner  of  rhyme  is  Dante's  tale : 

'  Seldom  upriseth  by  its  branches  smaK 

Prowess  of  man ;  for  God  of  His  prowess 

Wills  that  we  claim  of  Him  our  gentleness ; 

For  of  our  ancestors  we  no  thing  claim 

But  temporal  thing,  that  men  may  hurt  and  maim.'  "* 

By  the  still  ignobler  greed  of  money  for  its  own  sake, 
there  is  no  reason  whatever  to  suppose  Chaucer  to  have 
been  at  any  time  actuated ;  although,  under  the  pressure 
of  immediate  want,  he  devoted  a  Complaint  to  his  empty 
purse,  and  made  known,  in  the  proper  quarters,  his  desire 
to  see  it  refilled.  Finally,  as  to  what  is  commonly  called 
pleasure,  he  may  have  shared  the  fashions  and  even  the  vices 
of  his  age ;  but  we  know  hardly  anything  on  the  subject, 

*  The  passage  in  Canto  viii.  of  the  Purgatorio  is  thus  translated  by 
Longfellow : 

"  Not  oftentimes  upriseth  through  the  branches 
The  probity  of  man ;  and  this  He  wills 
Who  gives  it,  so  that  we  may  ask  of  Him." 

Its  intention  is  only  to  show  that  the  son  is  not  necessarily  what  the 
father  is  before  him ;  thus,  Edward  I.  of  England  is  a  mightier  man 
than  was  his  father  Henry  III.  Chaucer  has  ingeniously,  though  not 
altogether  legitimately,  pressed  the  passage  into  his  service. 


158  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

except  that  excess  in  wine,  which  is  often  held  a  pardon- 
able peccadillo  in  a  poet,  receives  his  emphatic  condemna- 
tion. It  would  be  hazardous  to  assert  of  him,  as  Herrick 
asserted  of  himself,  that  though  his  "  Muse  was  jocund, 
his  life  was  chaste ;"  inasmuch  as  his  name  occurs  in  one 
unfortunate  connexion  full  of  suspiciousness.  But  we  may 
at  least  believe  him  to  have  spoken  his  own  sentiments  in 
the  Doctor  of  Physic's  manly  declaration  that 

"...  Of  all  treason  sovereign  pestilence 
Is  when  a  man  betrayeth  innocence." 

His  true  pleasures  lay  far  away  from  those  of  vanity  and 
dissipation.  In  the  first  place,  he  seems  to  have  been  a 
passionate  reader.  To  his  love  of  books  he  is  constantly 
referring ;  indeed,  this  may  be  said  to  be  the  only  kind  of 
egotism  which  he  seems  to  take  a  pleasure  in  indulging. 
At  the  opening  of  his  earliest  extant  poem  of  consequence, 
the  Booh  of  the  Duchess^  he  tells  us  how  he  preferred  to 
drive  away  a  night  rendered  sleepless  through  melancholy 
thoughts,  by  means  of  a  book,  which  he  thought  better 
entertainment  than  a  game  either  at  chess  or  at  "  tables." 
This  passion  lasted  longer  with  him  than  the  other  passion 
which  it  had  helped  to  allay  ;  for  in  the  sequel  to  the  well- 
known  passage  in  the  House  of  Fame,  already  cited,  he 
gives  us  a  glimpse  of  himself  at  home,  absorbed  in  his  fa- 
vourite pursuit : — 

"  Thou  go'st  home  to  thy  house  anon, 
And  there,  as  dumb  as  any  stone, 
Thou  sittest  at  another  book, 
Till  fully  dazed  is  thy  look ; 
And  liv'st  thus  as  a  hermit  quite, 
Although  thy  abstinence  is  slight." 

And  doubtless  he  counted  the  days  lost  in  which  he  was 


III.]  CHARACTERISTICS  OF  CHAUCER.  159 

prevented  from  following  the  rule  of  life  wliicli  elsewhere 
he  sets  himself,  "  to  study  and  to  read  alway,  day  by  day," 
and  pressed  even  the  nights  into  his  service  when  he  was 
not  making  his  head  ache  with  writing.  How  eager  and, 
considering  the  times  in  which  he  lived,  how  diverse  a 
reader  he  was,  has  already  been  abundantly  illustrated  in 
the  course  of  this  volume.  His  knowledge  of  Holy  Writ 
was  considerable,  though  it  probably,  for  the  most  part, 
came  to  him  at  second-hand.  He  seems  to  have  had 
some  acquaintance  with  patristic  and  homiletic  literature ; 
he  produced  a  version  of  the  homily  on  Mary  Magdalene, 
improperly  attributed  to  Origen;  and,  as  we  have  seen, 
emulated  King  Alfred  in  translating  Boethius's  famous 
manual  of  moral  philosophy.  His  Latin  learning  extend- 
ed over  a  wide  range  of  literature,  from  Virgil  and  Ovid 
down  to  some  of  the  favourite  Latin  poets  of  the  Middle 
Ages.  It  is  to  be  feared  that  he  occasionally  read  Latin 
authors  with  so  eager  a  desire  to  arrive  at  the  contents  of 
their  books  that  he  at  times  mistook  their  meaning — not 
far  otherwise,  slightly  to  vary  a  happy  comparison  made 
by  one  of  his  most  eminent  commentators,  than  many  peo' 
pie  read  Chaucer's  own  writings  now-a-days.  That  he  pos- 
sessed any  knowledge  at  all  of  Greek  may  be  doubted,  both 
on  general  grounds  and  on  account  of  a  little  slip  or  two 
in  quotation  of  a  kind  not  unusual  with  those  who  quote 
what  they  have  not  previously  read.  His  Troilus  and 
Cressid  has  only  a  very  distant  connexion,  indeed,  with 
Homer,  whose  Iliad,  before  it  furnished  materials  for  the 
mediaeval  Troilus-leo-end,  had  been  filtered  throuo;h  a  brief 
Latin  epitome,  and  diluted  into  a  Latin  novel,  and  a  jour- 
nal kept  at  the  seat  of  war,  of  altogether  apocryphal  value. 
And,  indeed,  it  must  in  general  be  conceded  that,  if  Chau-i 
cer  had  read  much,  he  lays  claim  to  having  read  more ; 


160  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

for  he  not  only  occasionally  ascribes  to  known  authors 
works  which  we  can  by  no  means  feel  certain  as  to  their 
havinof  written,  but  at  times  he  even  cites  (or  is  made  to 
cite,  in  all  the  editions  of  his  works)  authors  who  are  alto- 
gether unknown  to  fame  by  the  names  which  he  gives  to 
them.  But  then  it  must  be  remembered  that  other  mediae- 
val writers  have  rendered  themselves  liable  to  the  same 
kind  of  charge.  Quoting  was  one  of  the  dominant  litera- 
ry fashions  of  the  age;  and  just  as  a  word  without  an 
oath  went  for  but  little  in  conversation,  so  a  statement  or 
sentiment  in  writing  acquired  a  greatly  enhanced  value 
when  suggested  by  authority,  even  after  no  more  precise 
a  fashion  than  the  use  of  the  phrase  "  as  old  books  say." 
In  Chaucer's  days  the  equivalent  of  the  modern  "  I  have 
seen  it  said  somewhere  " — with,  perhaps,  the  venturesome 
addition :  "  I  think,  in  Horace  " — had  clearly  not  become 
an  objectionable  expletive. 

Of  modern  literatures  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  Chau- 
cer had  made  substantially  his  own  the  two  which  could 
be  of  importance  to  him  as  a  poet.  His  obligations  to 
the  French  singers  have  probably  been  over-estimated — at 
all  events,  if  the  view  adopted  in  this  essay  be  the  correct 
one,  and  if  the  charming  poem  of  the  Flower  and  the  Leaf, 
together  with  the  lively,  but  as  to  its  meaning  not  very 
transparent,  so-called  Chaucer's  Dream,  be  denied  admis- 
sion among  his  genuine  works.  At  the  same  time,  the  in- 
fluence of  the  Roman  de  la  Rose  and  that  of  the  courtly 
poets,  of  whom  Machault  was  the  chief  in  France  and 
Froissart  the  representative  in  England,  are  perceptible  in 
Chaucer  almost  to  the  last,  nor  is  it  likely  that  he  should 
ever  have  ceased  to  study  and  assimilate  them.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  extent  of  his  knowledge  of  Italian  litera- 
ture has  probably  till  of  late  been  underrated  in  an  almost 


III.]  CHARACTERISTICS  OF  CHAUCER.  161 

equal  degree.  This  knowledge  displays  itself  not  only  in 
the  imitation  or  adaptation  of  particular  poems,  but  more 
especially  in  the  use  made  of  incidental  passages  and  de- 
tails. In  this  way  his  debts  to  Dante  were  especially  nu- 
merous ;  and  it  is  curious  to  find  proofs  so  abundant  of 
Chaucer's  relatively  close  study  of  a  poet  with  whose  gen- 
ius his  own  had  so  few  points  in  common.  Notwithstand- 
ing first  appearances,  it  is  an  open  question  whether  Chau- 
cer had  ever  read  Boccaccio's  Becamerone,  with  which  he 
may  merely  have  had  in  common  the  sources  of  several 
of  his  Canterbury  Tales.  But  as  he  certainly  took  one 
of  them  from  the  Teseide  (without  improving  it  in  the 
process),  and  not  less  certainly,  and  adapted  the  Filostrato 
in  his  Troilus  and  Cressid,  it  is  strange  that  he  should  re- 
frain from  naming  the  author  to  whom  he  was  more  in- 
debted than  to  any  one  other  for  poetic  materials. 

But  wide  and  diverse  as  Chaucer's  reading  fairly  de- 
serves to  be  called,  the  love  of  nature  was  even  stronger 
and  more  absorbing  in  him  than  the  love  of  books.  He 
has  himself,  in  a  very  charming  passage,  compared  the 
strength  of  the  one  and  of  the  other  of  his  predilections : — 

"  And  as  for  me,  though  I  have  knowledge  slight 
In  bookes  for  to  read  I  me  delight, 
And  to  them  give  I  faith  and  full  credence, 
And  in  my  heart  have  them  in  reverence 
So  heartily,  that  there  is  game  none 
That  from  my  bookes  maketh  me  be  gone, 
But  it  be  seldom  on  the  holiday — 
Save,  certainly,  when  that  the  month  of  May 
Is  come,  and  that  I  hear  the  fowles  sing. 
And  see  the  flowers  as  they  begin  to  spring. 
Farewell  my  book,  and  my  devotion." 

Undoubtedly  the  literary  fashion  of  Chaucer's  times  is 
8 


1H2  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

responsible  for  part  of  this  May-morning  sentiment,  with 
which  he  is  fond  of  beginning  his  poems  (the  Canterbury 
pilgrimage  is  dated  towards  the  end  of  April — but  is  not 
April  "  messenger  to  May  ?").  It  had  been  decreed  that 
flowers  should  be  the  badges  of  nations  and  dynasties, 
and  the  tokens  of  amorous  sentiment ;  the  rose  had  its 
votaries,  and  the  lily,  lauded  by  Chaucer's  Prioress  as 
the  symbol  of  the  Blessed  Virgin ;  while  the  daisy,  which 
first  sprang  from  the  tears  of  a  forlorn  damsel,  in  France 
gave  its  name  {marguerite)  to  an  entire  species  of  courtly 
verse.  The  enthusiastic  adoration  professed  by  Chaucer, 
in  the  Prologue  to  the  Legend  of  Good  Women,  for  the 
daisy,  which  he  afterwards  identifies  with  the  good  Al- 
ceste,  the  type  of  faithful  wifehood,  is,  of  course,  a  mere 
poetical  figure.  But  there  is  in  his  use  of  these  favourite 
literary  devices,  so  to  speak,  a  variety  in  sameness  signifi- 
cant of  their  accordance  with  his  own  taste,  and  of  the 
frank  and  fresh  love  of  nature  which  animated  him,  and 
which  seems  to  us  as  much  a  part  of  him  as  his  love  of 
books.  It  is  unlikely  that  his  personality  will  ever  be- 
come more  fully  known  than  it  is  at  present ;  nor  is  there 
anything  in  respect  of  which  we  seem  to  see  so  clearly 
into  his  inner  nature  as  with  regard  to  these  twin  predi- 
lections, to  which  he  remains  true  in  all  his  works  and  in 
all  his  moods.  While  the  study  of  books  was  his  chief 
passion,  nature  was  his  chief  joy  and  solace ;  while  his 
genius  enabled  him  to  transfuse  what  he  read  in  the  for- 
mer, what  came  home  to  him  in  the  latter  was  akin  to  that 
genius  itself ;  for  he  at  times  reminds  us  of  his  own  fresh 
Canace,  whom  he  describes  as  looking  so  full  of  happiness 
during  her  walk  through  the  wood  at  sunrise : — 

*'  What  for  the  season,  what  for  the  morning 
And  for  the  fowles  that  she  hearde  sing, 


III.]  CHARACTERISTICS  OF  CHAUCER.  163 

For  right  anon  she  wiste  what  they  meant 
Right  by  their  song,  and  knew  all  their  intent." 

M  the  above  view  of  Chaucer's  character  and  intellect- 
ual tastes  and  tendencies  be  in  the  main  correct,  there  will 
seem  to  be  nothing*  paradoxical  in  describing  his  literary 
progress,  so  far  as  its  data  are  ascertainable,  as  a  most  steady 
and  regular  one.  Very  few  men  awake  to  find  themselves 
either  famous  or  great  of  a  sudden,  and  perhaps  as  few  poets 
as  other  men,  though  it  may  be  heresy  against  a  venerable 
maxim  to  say  so.  Chaucer's  works  form  a  clearly  recog- 
nisable series  of  steps  towards  the  highest  achievement 
of  which,  under  the  circumstances  in  which  he  lived  and 
wrote,  he  can  be  held  to  have  been  capable ;  and  his  long 
and  arduous  self-training,  whether  consciously  or  not  di- 
rected to  a  particular  end,  was  of  that  sure  kind  from  which 
genius  itself  derives  strength.  His  beginnings  as  a  writer 
were  dictated,  partly  by  the  impulse  of  that  imitative 
faculty  which,  in  poetic  natures,  is  the  usual  precursor  of 
the  creative,  partly  by  the  influence  of  prevailing  tastes 
and  the  absence  of  native  English  literary  predecessors 
whom,  considering  the  circumstances  of  his  life  and  the 
nature  of  his  temperament,  he  could  have  found  it  a  con- 
genial task  to  follow.  French  poems  were,  accordingly,  his 
earliest  models  ;  but  fortunately  (unlike  Gower,  whom  it  is 
so  instructive  to  compare  with  Chaucer,  precisely  because 
the  one  lacked  that  gift  of  genius  which  the  other  possess- 
ed) he  seems  at  once  to  have  resolved  to  make  use  for  his 
poetical  writings  of  his  native  speech.  In  no  way,  there- 
fore, could  he  have  begun  his  career  with  so  happy  a  prom- 
ise of  its  future  as  in  that  which  he  actually  chose.  Nor 
could  any  course  so  naturally  have  led  him  to  introduce 
into  his  poetic  diction  the  French  idioms  and  words  al- 
ready used  in  the  spoken  language  of  Englishmen,  more 


164  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

especially  in  those  classes  for  whicli  he  in  the  first  instance 
wrote,  and  thus  to  confer  upon  our  tongue  the  great  bene- 
fit which  it  owes  to  him.  Again,  most  fortunately,  others 
had  already  pointed  the  way  to  the  selection  for  literary 
use  of  that  English  dialect  which  was  probably  the  most 
suitable  for  the  purpose  ;  and  Chaucer,  as  a  Southern  man 
(like  his  Parson  of  a  Town),  belonged  to  a  part  of  the 
country  where  the  old  alliterative  verse  had  long  since 
been  discarded  for  classical  and  romance  forms  of  versifi- 
cation. Thus  the  Romaunt  of  the  Rose  most  suitably 
opens  his  literary  life  —  a  translation  in  which  there  is 
nothing  original  except  an  occasional  turn  of  phrase,  but 
in  which  the  translator  finds  opportunity  for  exercising 
his  powers  of  judgment  by  virtually  re-editing  the  work 
before  him.  And  already  in  the  Book  of  the  Duchess, 
though  most  unmistakeably  a  follower  of  Machault,  he  is 
also  the  rival  of  the  great  French  trouvere,  and  has  advanced 
in  freedom  of  movement  not  less  than  in  agreeableness  of 
form.  Then,  as  his  travels  extended  his  acquaintance  with 
foreign  literatures  to  that  of  Italy,  he  here  found  abundant 
fresh  materials  from  which  to  feed  his  productive  powers, 
and  more  elaborate  forms  in  which  to  clothe  their  results ; 
while  at  the  same  time  comparison,  the  kindly  nurse  of 
originality,  more  and  more  enabled  him  to  recast  instead  of 
imitating,  or  encouraged  him  freely  to  invent.  In  Troilus 
and  Cressid  he  produced  something  very  different  from  a 
mere  condensed  translation,  and  achieved  a  work  in  which 
he  showed  himself  a  master  of  poetic  expression  and  sus- 
tained narrative ;  in  the  House  of  Fame  and  the  Assembly 
of  Fowls  he  moved  with  freedom  in  happily  contrived 
allegories  of  his  own  invention ;  and  with  the  Legend  of 
Good  Women  he  had  already  arrived  at  a  stage  when  he 
could  undertake  to  review,  under  a  pleasant  pretext,  but 


in.]  CHARACTERISTICS  OF  CHAUCER.  165 

with  evident  consciousness  of  work  done,  the  list  of  his 
previous  works.  "  He  hath,"  he  said  of  himself,  "  made 
many  a  lay  and  many  a  thing."  Meanwhile  the  labour 
incidentally  devoted  by  him  to  translation  from  the  Latin, 
or  to  the  composition  of  prose  treatises  in  the  scholastic 
mannei*  of  academical  exercises,  could  but  little  affect  his 
general  literary  progress.  The  mere  scholarship  of  youth, 
even  if  it  be  the  reverse  of  close  and  profound,  is  wont  to 
cling  to  a  man  through  life,  and  to  assert  its  modest  claims 
at  any  season ;  and  thus  Chaucer's  school-learning  exercised 
little  influence  either  of  an  advancing  or  of  a  retarding  kind 
upon  the  full  development  of  his  genius.  Nowhere  is  he 
so  truly  himself  as  in  the  masterpiece  of  his  last  years. 
For  the  Canterbury  Tales^  in  which  he  is  at  once  greatest, 
most  original,  and  most  catholic  in  the  choice  of  materials 
as  well  as  in  moral  sympathies,  bears  the  unmistakeable 
stamp  of  having  formed  the  crowning  labour  of  his  life — 
a  work  which  death  alone  prevented  him  from  completing. 
It  may  be  said,  without  presumption,  that  such  a  gen- 
eral view  as  this  leaves  ample  room  for  all  reasonable  the- 
ories as  to  the  chronology  and  sequence,  where  these  re- 
main more  or  less  unsettled,  of  Chaucer's  indisputably  gen- 
uine works.  In  any  case,  there  is  no  poet  whom,  if  only 
as  an  exercise  in  critical  analysis,  it  is  more  interesting  to 
study  and  re-study  in  connexion  with  the  circumstances  of 
his  literary  progress.  He  still,  as  has  been  seen,  belongs 
to  the  Middle  Ages,  but  to  a  period  in  which  the  noblest 
ideals  of  these  Middle  Ages  are  already  beginning  to  pale 
and  their  mightiest  institutions  to  quake  around  him ;  in 
which  learnino:  continues  to  be  in  the  main  scholasticism, 
the  linking  of  argument  with  argument,  and  the  accumu- 
lation of  authority  upon  authority,  and  poetry  remains  to 
a  great  extent  the  crabbedness  of  clerks  or  the  formality 


166  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

of  courts.  Again,  Chaucer  is  mediaeval  in  tricks  of  style 
and  turns  of  phrase  ;  he  often  contents  himself  with  the 
tritest  of  figures  and  the  most  unrefreshing  of  ancient  de- 
vices, and  freely  resorts  to  a  mixture  of  names  and  asso- 
ciations belonging  to  his  own  times  with  others  derived 
from  other  ages.  This  want  of  literary  perspective  is  a 
sure  sign  of  mediae valism,  and  one  which  has  amused  the 
world,  or  has  jarred  upon  it,  since  the  Renascence  taught 
men  to  study  both  classical  and  Biblical  antiquity  as  reali- 
ties, and  not  merely  as  a  succession  of  pictures  or  of  tap- 
estries on  a  wall.  Chaucer  mingles  things  mediaeval  and 
things  classical  as  freely  as  he  brackets  King  David  with 
the  philosopher  Seneca,  or  Judas  Iscariot  with  the  Greek 
"  dissimulator  "  Sinon.  His  Dido,  mounted  on  a  stout 
palfrey  paper  -  white  of  hue,  with  a  red  -  and  -  gold  saddle 
embroidered  and  embossed,  resembles  Alice  Perrers  in  all 
her  pomp  rather  than  the  Yirgilian  queen.  Jupiter's  ea- 
gle, the  poet's  guide  and  instructor  in  the  allegory  of  the 
House  of  Fame,  invokes  "  Saint  Mary,  Saint  James,"  and 
"  Saint  Clare  "  all  at  once ;  and  the  pair  of  lovers  at  Troy 
sio;n  their  letters  "  la  vostre  ^T."  and  "  la  vostre  C."  An- 
achronisms  of  this  kind  (of  the  danger  of  which,  by  the 
way,  to  judge  from  a  passage  in  the  Prologue  to  the  Legend 
of  Good  Women,  Chaucer  would  not  appear  to  have  been 
wholly  unconscious)  are  intrinsically  of  very  slight  im- 
portance. But  the  morality  of  Chaucer's  narratives  is  at 
times  the  artificial  and  overstrained  morality  of  the  Middle 
Ages,  which,  as  it  were,  clutches  hold  of  a  single  idea  to 
the  exclusion  of  all  others — a  morality  which,  when  car- 
ried to  its  extreme  consequences,  makes  monomaniacs  as 
well  as  martyrs,  in  both  of  which  species,  occasionally, 
perhaps,  combined  in  the  same  persons,  the  Middle  Ages 
abound.     The  fidelity  of  Griseldis  under  the  trials  imposed 


in.]  CHARACTERISTICS  OF  CHAUCER.  167 

upon  her  by  her,  in  point  of  fact,  brutal  husband  is  the 
fidelity  of  a  martyr  to  unreason.  The  story  was  after- 
wards put  on  the  stage  in  the  Elizabethan  age ;  and 
though  even  in  the  play  of  Patient  Grissil  (by  Chettle  and 
others)  it  is  not  easy  to  reconcile  the  husband's  proceed- 
ings with  the  promptings  of  common  sense,  yet  the  play- 
wrights, with  the  instinct  of  their  craft,  contrived  to  in- 
troduce some  element  of  humanity  into  his  character,  and 
of  probability  into  his  conduct.  Again,  the  supra-chival- 
rous respect  paid  by  Arviragus,  the  Breton  knight  of  the 
FranklivbS  Tale,  to  the  sanctity  of  his  wife's  word,  seri- 
ously to  the  peril  of  his  own  and  his  wife's  honour,  is  an 
effort  to  which  probably  even  the  Knight  of  La  Mancha 
himself  would  hav^e  proved  unequal.  It  is  not  to  be  expect- 
ed that  Chaucer  should  have  failed  to  share  some  of  the 
prejudices  of  his  times  as  well  as  to  fall  in  with  their  ways 
of  thought  and  sentiment ;  and  though  it  is  the  Prioress 
who  tells  a  story  against  the  Jews  which  passes  the  legend 
of  Hugh  of  Lincoln,  yet  it  would  be  very  hazardous  to  seek 
any  irony  in  this  legend  of  bigotry.  In  general,  much  of 
that  naivete  which  to  modern  readers  seems  Chaucer's  most 
obvious  literary  quality  must  be  ascribed  to  the  times  in 
which  he  lived  and  wrote.  This  quality  is,  in  truth,  by  no 
means  that  which  most  deeply  impresses  itself  itpon  the 
observation  of  any  one  able  to  compare  Chaucer's  writings 
with  those  of  his  more  immediate  predecessors  and  succes- 
sors. But  the  sense  in  which  the  term  naif  should  be  un- 
derstood in  literary  criticism  is  so  imperfectly  agreed  upon 
among  us,  that  we  have  not  yet  even  found  an  English 
equivalent  for  the  word. 

To  Chaucer's  times,  then,  belongs  much  of  what  may  at, 
first  sight  seem  to  include  itself  among  the  characteristics 
of  his  genius ;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  there  are  to  be 


168  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

distinguished  from  these  the  influences  due  to  his  training 
and  studies  in  two  literatures — the  French  and  the  Italian. 
In  the  former  of  these  he  must  have  felt  at  home,  if  not 
by  birth  and  descent,  at  all  events  by  social  connexion, 
habits  of  life,  and  ways  of  thought ;  while  in  the  latter  he, 
whose  own  country's  was  still  a  half-fledged  literary  life, 
found  ready  to  his  hand  masterpieces  of  artistic  maturity 
lofty  in  conception,  broad  in  bearing,  finished  in  form. 
There  still  remain,  for  summary  review,  the  elements  prop- 
er to  his  own  poetic  individuality — those  which  mark  him 
out  not  only  as  the  first  great  poet  of  his  own  nation,  but 
as  a  great  poet  for  all  times. 

The  poet  must  please ;  if  he  wishes  to  be  successful  and 
popular,  he  must  suit  himself  to  the  tastes  of  his  public ; 
and  even  if  he  be  indifferent  to  immediate  fame,  he  must, 
as  belonging  to  one  of  the  most  impressionable,  the  most 
receptive  species  of  humankind,  live,  in  a  sense,  with  and 
for  his  generation.  To  meet  this  demand  upon  his  gen 
ius,  Chaucer  was  born  with  many  gifts  which  he  carefully 
and  assiduously  exercised  in  a  long  series  of  poetical  ex- 
periments, and  which  he  was  able  felicitously  to  combine 
for  the  achievement  of  results  unprecedented  in  our  litera- 
ture. In  readiness  of  descriptive  power,  in  brightness 
and  variety  of  imagery,  and  in  flow  of  diction,  Chaucer 
remained  unequalled  by  any  English  poet,  till  he  was  sur^ 
passed — it  seems  not  too  much  to  say,  in  all  three  respects 
— by  Spenser.  His  verse,  where  it  suits  his  purpose,  glit- 
ters, to  use  Dunbar's  expression,  as  with  fresh  enamel,  and 
its  hues  are  variegated  like  those  of  a  Flemish  tapestry. 
Even  where  his  descriptive  enumerations  seem  at  first  sight 
monotonous  or  perfunctory,  they  are,  in  truth,  graphic  and 
true  in  their  details,  as  in  the  list  of  birds  in  the  Assembly 
of  FowlSf  quoted  in  part  on  an  earlier  page  of  Uiis  essay, 


m.]  CHARACTERISTICS  OF  CHAUCER.  169 

and  in  the  shorter  list  of  trees  in  the  same  poem,  which 
is,  however,  in  its  general  features,  imitated  from  BoC' 
caccio.  Neither  King  James  I.  of  Scotland,  nor  Spenser, 
who  after  Chaucer  essayed  similar  tours  de  forcCy  were 
happier  than  he  had  been  before  them.  Or  we  may  refer 
to  the  description  of  the  preparations  foi  the  tournament 
and  of  the  tournament  itself  in  the  ICnight^ a  Tale,  or  to  the 
thoroughly  Dutch  picture  of  a  disturbance  in  a  farm-yard 
in  the  JVtCTi's  Priests.  The  vividness  with  which  Chaucer 
describes  scenes  and  events  as  if  he  had  them  before  his 
own  eyes,  was  no  doubt,  in  the  first  instance,  a  result  of 
his  own  imaginative  temperament;  but  one  would  prob- 
ably not  go  wrong  in  attributing  the  fulness  of  the  use 
which  he  made  of  this  gift  to  the  influence  of  his  Italian 
studies — more  especially  to  those  which  led  him  to  Dante, 
whose  multitudinous  characters  and  scenes  impress  them- 
selves with  so  singular  and  immediate  a  definiteness  upon 
the  imagination.  At  the  same  time,  Chaucer's  resources 
seem  inexhaustible  for  filling  up  or  rounding  off  his  nar- 
ratives with  the  aid  of  chivalrous  love  or  religious  legend, 
by  the  introduction  of  samples  of  scholastic  discourse  or 
devices  of  personal  or  general  allegory.  He  commands, 
where  necessary,  a  rhetorician's  readiness  of  illustration, 
and  a  masque-writer's  inventiveness,  as  to  machinery ;  he 
can  even  (in  the  House  of  Fame)  conjure  up  an  elaborate 
but  self-consistent  phantasmagory  of  his  own,  and  continue 
it  with  a  fulness  proving  that  his  fancy  would  not  be  at 
a  loss  for  supplying  even  more  materials  than  he  cares  to 
employ. 

But  Chaucer's  poetry  derived  its  power  to  please  from 

yet  another  quality ;  and  in  this  he  was  the  first  of  our 

English  poets  to  emulate  the  poets  of  the  two  literatures 

to  which,  in  the  matter  of  his  productions  and  in  the  or- 

M     8*  12 


170  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

naments  of  his  diction,  he  owed  so  much.  There  is  in 
his  verse  a  music  which  hardly  ever  wholly  loses  itself, 
and  which  at  times  is  as  sweet  as  that  in  any  English 
poet  after  him. 

This  assertion  is  not  one  which  is  likely  to  be  gainsaid 
at  the  present  day,  when  there  is  not  a  single  lover  of 
Chaucer  who  would  sit  down  contented  with  Dryden's 
condescending  mixture  of  censure  and  praise.  "  The  verse 
of  Chaucer,"  he  wrote,  "  I  confess,  is  not  harmonious  to 
us.  They  who  lived  with  him,  and  some  time  after  him, 
thought  it  musical ;  and  it  continues  so,  even  in  our  judg- 
ment, if  compared  with  the  numbers  of  Lydgate  and  Gow 
er,  his  contemporaries :  there  is  a  rude  sweetness  of  a 
Scotch  tune  in  it,  which  is  natural  and  pleasing,  though 
not  perfect."  At  the  same  time,  it  is  no  doubt  necessary, 
in  order  to  verify  the  correctness  of  a  less  balanced  judg- 
ment, to  take  the  trouble,  which,  if  it  could  but  be  be- 
lieved, is  by  no  means  great,  to  master  the  rules  and 
usages  of  Chaucerian  versification.  These  rules  and  usages 
the  present  is  not  a  fit  occasion  for  seeking  to  explain.^ 

'  It  may,  however,  be  stated  that  they  only  partially  connect  them- 
selves with  Chaucer's  use  of  forms  which  are  now  obsolete — more 
especially  of  inflexions  of  verbs  and  substantives  (including  several 
iu stances  of  the  famous  final  e),  and  contractions  with  the  negative 
ue  and  other  monosyllabic  words  ending  in  a  vowel,  of  the  initial  syl- 
lables of  words  beginning  with  vowels  or  with  the  letter  h.  These 
and  other  variations  from  later  usage  in  spelling  and  pronunciation 
— such  as  the  occurrence  of  an  e  (sometimes  sounded  and  sometimes 
not)  at  the  end  of  words  in  which  it  is  now  no  longer  retained,  and, 
again,  the  frequent  accentuation  of  many  words  of  French  origin  in 
their  last  syllable,  as  in  French,  and  of  certain  words  of  English  ori- 
gin analogously — are  to  be  looked  for  as  a  matter  of  course  in  a  last 
writing  in  the  period  of  our  language  in  which  Chaucer  lived.  He 
clearly  foresaw  the  difliculties  which  would  be  caused  to  his  readers 
by  the  variations  of  usage  in  spelling  and  pronunciation — variations 


m.]  CHARACTERISTICS  OF  CHAUCER.  171 

With  regard  to  the  most  important  of  them,  is  it  not 
too  much  to  say  that  instinct  and  experience  will  very 

to  some  extent  rendered  inevitable  by  the  fact  that  he  wrote  in  an 
English  dialect  which  was  only  gradually  coming  to  be  accepted  as 
the  uniform  language  of  EngUsh  writers.  Towards  the  close  of  his 
Troilus  and  Cressid  he  thus  addresses  his  "  little  book,"  in  fear  of 
the  mangling  it  might  undergo  from  scriveners  who  might  blunder 
in  the  copying  of  its  words,  or  from  reciters  who  might  maltreat  its 
verse  in  the  distribution  of  the  accents : — 

"  And,  since  there  is  so  great  diversity 
In  English,  and  in  writing  of  our  tongue, 
I  pray  to  ^od  that  none  may  miswrite  thee 
Nor  thee  mismetre,  for  default  of  tongue, 
And  wheresoe'er  thou  mayst  be  read  or  sung, 
That  thou  be  understood,  God  I  beseech." 

But  in  his  versification  he  likewise  adopted  certain  other  practices 
which  had  no  such  origin  or  reason  as  those  already  referred  to. 
Among  them  were  the  addition,  at  the  end  of  a  line  of  five  accents, 
of  an  unaccented  syllable ;  and  the  substitution,  for  the  first  foot  of 
a  line  either  of  four  or  of  five  accents,  of  a  single  syllable.  These 
deviations  from  a  stricter  system  of  versification  he  doubtless  per- 
mitted to  hunself,  partly  for  the  sake  of  variety,  and  partly  for  that 
of  convenience ;  but  neither  of  them  is  peculiar  to  himself,  or  of  su- 
preme importance  for  the  effect  of  his  verse.  In  fact,  he  seems  to 
allow  as  much  in  a  passage  of  his  Home  of  Fame — a  poem  written,  it 
should,  however,  be  observed,  in  an  easy-going  form  of  verse  (the  line 
of  four  accents)  which  in  his  later  period  Chaucer  seems,  with  this 
exception,  to  have  invariably  discarded.  He  here  beseeches  Apollo 
to  make  his  rh^e 

"...  Somewhat  agreeable, 
Though  some  verse  fail  m  a  syllable." 
But  another  of  his  usages — the  misunderstanding  of  which  has  more 
than  anything  else  caused  his  art  as  a  writer  of  verse  to  be  misjudged 
— seems  to  have  been  due  to  a  very  different  cause.  To  understand 
the  real  nature  of  the  usage  in  question  it  is  only  necessary  to  seize 
the  principle  of  Chaucer's  rhythm.  Of  this  principle  it  was  well  said 
many  years  ago  by  a  most  competent  authority — Mr.  R.  Home — thAt 


1V2  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

speedily  combine  to  indicate  to  an  intelligent  reader  where 
the  poet  has  resorted  to  it.  Without  intelligence  on  the 
part  of  the  reader,  the  beautiful  harmonies  of  Mr.  Tenny- 
son's later  verse  remain  obscure ;  so  that,  taken  in  this 
way,  the  most  musical  of  English  verse  may  seem  as  dif- 
ficult to  read  as  the  most  rugged ;  but  in  the  former  case 
the  lesson  is  learnt  not  to  be  lost  again ;  in  the  latter,  the 
tumbling  is  ever  beginning  anew,  as  with  the  rock  of 
Sisyphus.  There  is  nothing  that  can  fairly  be  called  rug- 
ged in  the  verse  of  Chaucer. 

And,  fortunately,  there  are  not  many  pages  in  this  poet's 
works  devoid  of  lines  or  passages  the  music  of  which  can- 
not escape  any  ear,  however  unaccustomed  it  may  be  to 
his  diction  and  versification.  What  is  the  nature  of  the 
art  at  whose  bidding  ten  monosyllables  arrange  themselves 
into  a  line  of  the  exquisite  cadence  of  the  following : — 

"And  she  was  fair,  as  is  the  rose  in  May  ?" 

Nor  would  it  be  easy  to  find  lines  surpassing  in  their  mel- 
ancholy charm  Chaucer's  version  of  the  lament  of  Medea 
when  deserted  by  Jason — a  passage  which  makes  the  reader 

it  is  "  inseparable  from  a  full  or  fair  exercise  of  the  genius  of  our 
language  in  versification."  For  though  this  usage  in  its  full  freedom 
was  gradually  again  lost  to  our  poetry  for  a  time,  yet  it  was  in  a  large 
measure  recovered  by  Shakspeare  and  the  later  dramatists  of  our 
great  age,  and  has  since  been  never  altogether  abandoned  again — not 
even  by  the  correct  writers  of  the  Augustan  period — till  by  the  fa- 
vourites of  our  own  times  it  is  resorted  to  with  a  perhaps  excessive 
liberality.  It  consists  simply  in  shirring  over  certain  final  syllables 
— not  eliding  them  or  contracting  them  with  the  syllables  following 
upon  them,  but  passing  over  them  lightly,  so  that,  without  being  in- 
audible, they  may  at  the  same  time  not  interfere  with  the  rhythm  or 
beat  of  the  verse.  This  usage,  by  adding  to  the  variety,  incontestably 
adds  to  the  flexibility  and  beauty  of  Chaucer's  versification. 


m.^  CHARACTERISTICS  OF  CHAUCER.  lid 

neglectful  of  the  Englisli  poet's  modest  hint  that  the  letter 
of  the  Colchian  princess  may  be  found  at  full  length  la 
Ovid.  The  lines  shall  be  quoted  verbatim,  though  not 
literatim;  and  perhaps  no  better  example,  and  none  more 
readily  appreciable  by  a  modern  ear,  could  be  given  than 
the  fourth  of  them  of  the  harmonious  effect  of  Chaucer's 
usage  of  slurring,  referred  to  above : — 

"  Why  lik^d  thee  my  yellow  hair  to  see 
More  than  the  boundes  of  mine  honesty  ? 
Why  liked  me  thy  youth  and  thy  fairness 
And  of  thy  tongue  the  infinite  graeiousness  ? 
0,  had's:  thou  in  thy  conquest  dead  y-bee(n), 
Full  myckle  untruth  had  there  died  with  thee." 

Qualities  and  powers  such  as  the  above  have  belonged 
to  poets  of  very  various  times  and  countries  before  and 
after  Chaucer.  But  in  addition  to  these  he  most  assuredly 
possessed  others,  which  are  not  usual  among  the  poets  of 
our  nation,  and  which,  whencesoever  they  had  come  to  him 
personally,  had  not,  before  they  made  their  appearance  iu 
him,  seemed  indigenous  to  the  English  soil.  It  would,  in- 
deed, be  easy  to  misrepresent  the  history  of  English  poetry, 
during  the  period  which  Chaucer's  advent  may  be  said  to 
have  closed,  by  ascribing  to  it  a  uniformly  solemn  and 
serious,  or  even  dark  and  gloomy,  character.  Such  a  de- 
scription would  not  apply  to  the  poetry  of  the  period  be- 
fore the  Norman  Conquest,  though,  in  truth,  little  room 
could  be^left  for  the  play  of  fancy  or  wit  in  the  hammer- 
ed-out  war-song,  or  in  the  long-drawn  Scriptural  paraphrase. 
Nor  was  it  likely  that  a  contagious  gaiety  should  find  an 
opportunity  of  manifesting  itself  in  the  course  of  the  ver- 
sification of  grave  historical  chronicles,  or  in  the  tranquil 
objective  reproduction  of  the  endless  traditions  of  British 
legend.     Of  the  popular  songs  belonging  to  the  period 


lU  CHAUCER.  [CHA?. 

after  tlie  Xorman  Conquest,  the  remains  which  furnish  us 
with  direct  or  indirect  evidence  concerning  them  hardly 
enable  us  to  form  an  opinion.  But  we  know  that  (the 
cavilling  spirit  of  Chaucer's  burlesque  Rhyme  of  Sir 
Thopas  notwithstanding)  the  efforts  of  English  metrical 
romance  in  the  thirteenth  and  fourteenth  centuries  were 
neither  few  nor  feeble,  although  these  romances  were  chief- 
ly translations,  sometimes  abridgments  to  boot — even  the 
Arthurian  cycle  having  been  only  imported  across  the 
Channel,  though  it  may  have  thus  come  back  to  its  original 
home.  There  is  some  animation  in  at  least  one  famous 
chronicle  in  verse,  dating  from  about  the  close  of  the  thir- 
teenth century;  there  is  real  spirit  in  the  war-songs  of 
Minot  in  the  middle  of  the  fourteenth ;  and  from  about 
its  beginnings  dates  a  satire  full  of  broad  fun  concerning 
the  jolly  life  led  by  the  monks.  But  none  of  these  works 
or  of  those  contemporary  with  them  show  that  innate  light- 
ness and  buoyancy  of  tone  which  seems  to  add  wings  to 
the  art  of  poetry.  Nowhere  had  the  English  mind  found 
so  real  an  opportunity  of  poetic  utterance  in  the  days  of 
Chaucer's  own  youth  as  in  Langland's  unique  work,  na- 
tional in  its  allegorical  form  and  in  its  alliterative  me- 
tre ;  and  nowhere  had  this  utterance  been  more  stern  and 
severe. 

No  sooner,  however,  has  Chaucer  made  his  appearance 
as  a  poet,  than  he  seems  to  show  what  mistress's  badge  he 
wears,  which  party  of  the  two  that  have  at  most  times 
divided  among  them  a  national  literature  and  its  represent- 
atives he  intends  to  follow.  The  burden  of  his  sons;  is 
"  Si  douce  est  la  marguerite :"  he  has  learnt  the  ways  of 
French  gallantry  as  if  to  the  manner  born,  and  thus  be- 
comes, as  it  were  without  hesitation  or  effort,  the  first 
English  love -poet.      Nor — though  in  the  course  of  his 


III.]  CHARACTERISTICS  OF  CHAUCER.  176 

career  his  range  of  themes,  his  command  of  materials,  and 
his  choice  of  forms  are  widely  enlarged — is  the  gay  ban- 
ner under  which  he  has  ranged  himself  ever  deserted  by 
him.  With  the  exception  of  the  House  of  Fame,  there  is 
not  one  of  his  longer  poems  of  which  the  passion  of  love, 
under  one  or  another  of  its  aspects,  does  not  either  con- 
stitute the  main  subject  or  (as  in  the  Canterbury  Tales) 
furnish  the  greater  part  of  the  contents.  It  is  as  a  love- 
poet  that  Gower  thinks  of  Chaucer  when  paying  a  tribute 
to  him  in  his  own  verse ;  it  is  to  the  attacks  made  upon 
him  in  his  character  as  a  love-poet,  and  to  his  conscious- 
ness of  what  he  has  achieved  as  such,  that  he  gives  expres- 
sion in  the  Prologue  to  the  Legend  of  Good  Women,  where 
his  fair  advocate  tells  the  God  of  Love : — 

"  The  man  hath  served  you  of  his  cunning, 
And  furthered  well  your  law  in  his  writing, 
All  be  it  that  he  cannot  well  indite, 
Yet  hath  he  made  unlearned  folk  delight 
To  serve  you  in  praising  of  your  name." 

And  so  he  resumes  his  favourite  theme  once  more,  to  tell, 
as  the  Man  of  Law  says,  "  of  lovers  up  and  down,  more 
than  Ovid  makes  mention  of  in  his  old  Epistles^  This 
fact  alone — that  our  first  great  English  poet  was  also  our 
first  English  love -poet,  properly  so  called  —  would  have 
sufficed  to  transform  our  poetic  literature  through  his 
agency. 

What,  however,  calls  for  special  notice,  in  connexion 
with  Chaucer's  special  poetic  quality  of  gaiety  and  bright- 
ness, is  the  preference  which  he  exhibits  for  treating  the 
joyous  aspects  of  this  many-sided  passion.  Apart  from 
the  Legend  of  Good  Women,  which  is  specially  designed 
to  give  brilliant  examples  of  the  faithfulness  of  women  un- 
der circumstances  of  trial,  pain,  and  grief,  and  from  two  or 


176  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

three  of  the  Canterbury  Tales,  he  dwells,  with  consistent 
preference,  on  the  bright  side  of  love,  though  remaining  a 
stranger  to  its  divine  radiance,  which  shines  forth  so  fully 
upon  us  out  of  the  pages  of  Spenser.  Thus,  in  the  As- 
sembly of  Fowls  all  is  gaiety  and  mirth,  as  indeed  beseems 
the  genial  neighbourhood  of  Cupid's  temple.  Again,  in 
Troilus  and  Cressid,  the  earlier  and  cheerful  part  of  the 
love-story  is  that  which  he  develops  with  unraistakeable 
sympathy  and  enjoyment;  and  in  his  hands  this  part  of 
the  poem  becomes  one  of  the  most  charming  poetic  narra- 
tives of  the  birth  and  growth  of  young  love  which  our 
literature  possesses — a  soft  and  sweet  counterpart  to  the 
consuming  heat  of  Marlowe's  unrivalled  Hero  and  Leander. 
With  Troilus  it  was  love  at  first  sight — with  Cressid  a 
passion  of  very  gradual  growth.  But  so  full  of  nature  is 
the  narrative  of  this  growth,  that  one  is  irresistibly  re- 
minded at  more  than  one  point  of  the  inimitable  creations 
of  the  great  modern  master  in  the  description  of  women's 
love.  Is  there  not  a  touch  of  Gretchen  in  Cressid,  retir- 
ing into  her  chamber  to  ponder  over  the  first  revelation  to 
her  of  the  love  of  Troilus  ? — 

"  Cressid  arose,  no  longer  there  she  stayed, 
But  straight  into  her  closet  went  anon, 
And  set  her  down,  as  still  as  any  stone, 
And  every  word  gan  up  and  down  to  wind. 
That  he  had  said,  as  it  came  to  her  mind." 

And  is  there  not  a  touch  of  Clarchen  in  her — though  with 
a  difference — when  from  her  casement  she  blushingly  be- 
holds her  lover  riding  past  in  triumph : 

*'  So  like  a  man  of  armes  and  a  knight 
He  was  to  see,  filled  full  of  high  prowess, 
For  both  he  had  a  body,  and  a  might 


ra.]  CHARACTERISTICS  OF  CHAUCER.  177 

To  do  that  thing,  as  well  as  hardiness ; 
And  eke  to  see  him  in  his  gear  him  dress, 
So  fresh,  so  young,  so  wieldly  seemed  he, 
It  truly  was  a  heaven  him  for  to  see. 

"  His  helm  was  hewn  about  in  twenty  places, 
That  by  a  tissue  hung  his  back  behind ; 
His  shield  was  dashed  with  strokes  of  swords  and  macei, 
In  which  men  mighte  many  an  arrow  find 
That  pierced  had  the  horn  and  nerve  and  rind ; 
And  aye  the  people  cried  :  '  Here  comes  our  joy. 
And,  next  his  brother,  holder  up  of  Troy.'  " 

Even  in  the  very  Book  of  the  Duchess^  the  widowed  lover 
describes  the  maiden  charms  of  his  lost  wife  with  so  lively 
a  freshness  as  almost  to  make  one  forget  that  it  is  a  lost 
wife  whose  praises  are  being  recorded. 

The  vivacity  and  joyousness  of  Chaucer's  poetic  temper- 
ament, however,  show  themselves  in  various  other  ways  be- 
sides his  favourite  manner  of  treating  a  favourite  theme. 
They  enhance  the  spirit  of  his  passages  of  dialogue,  and 
add  force  and  freshness  to  his  passages  of  description. 
They  make  him  amusingly  impatient  of  epical  lengths, 
abrupt  in  his  transitions,  and  anxious,  with  an  anxiety  usu- 
ally manifested  by  readers  rather  than  by  writers,  to  come 
to  the  point,  "  to  the  great  effect,"  as  he  is  wont  to  call 
it.  "  Men,"  he  says,  "  may  overlade  a  ship  or  barge,  and 
therefore  I  will  skip  at  once  to  the  effect,  and  let  all  the 
rest  slip."  And  he  unconsciously  suggests  a  striking  dif- 
ference between  himself  and  the  great  Elizabethan  epic  poet 
who  owes  so  much  to  him,  when  he  declines  to  make  as 
long  a  tale  of  the  chaff  or  of  the  straw  as  of  the  corn,  and 
to  describe  all  the  details  of  a  marriage-feast  seriatim : 

"  The  fruit  of  every  tale  is  for  to  say : 
They  eat  and  drink,  and  dance  and  sing  and  play." 


178  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

This  may  be  the  fruit ;  Init  epic  poets,  from  Homer  down- 
wards, have  been  generally  in  the  habit  of  not  neglecting 
the  foliage.  Spenser,  in  particular,  has  that  impartial  co- 
piousness which  we  think  it  our  duty  to  admire  in  the  Ionic 
epos,  but  which,  if  the  truth  were  told,  has  prevented  gen- 
erations of  Englishmen  from  acquiring  an  intimate  per- 
sonal acquaintance  with  the  Fairy  Queen.  With  Chaucer 
the  danger  certainly  rather  lay  in  an  opposite  direction. 
Most  assuredly  he  can  tell  a  story  with  admirable  point 
and  precision,  when  he  wishes  to  do  so.  Perhaps  no  bet- 
ter example  of  his  skill  in  this  respect  could  be  cited  than 
the  Mancij^le's  Tale,  with  its  rapid  narrative,  its  major  and 
minor  catastrophe,  and  its  concise  moral,  ending  thus : — 

*'  My  son,  beware,  and  be  no  author  new 
Of  tidings,  whether  they  be  false  or  true  ; 
Whereso  thou  comest,  among  high  or  low, 
Keep  well  thy  tongue,  and  think  upon  the  crow." 

At  the  same  time,  his  frequently  recurring  announcements 
of  his  desire  to  be  brief  have  the  effect  of  making  his  nar- 
rative appear  to  halt,  and  thus,  unfortunately,  defeat  their 
own  purpose.  An  example  of  this  may  be  found  in  the 
\Knighfs  Tale,  a  narrative  poem  of  which,  in  contrast  with 
its  beauties,  a  want  of  evenness  is  one  of  the  chief  defects. 
It  is  not  that  the  desire  to  suppress  redundancies  is  a  ten- 
dency deserving  anything  but  commendation  in  any  writer, 
whether  great  or  small ;  but  rather,  that  the  art  of  con- 
cealing art  had  not  yet  dawned  upon  Chaucer.  And  yet 
few  writers  of  any  time  have  taken  a  more  evident  pleas- 
ure in  the  process  of  literary  production,  and  have  more 
visibly  overflowed  with  sympathy  for,  or  antipathy  against, 
the  characters  of  their  own  creation.  Great  novelists  of 
our  own  age  have  often  told  their  readers,  in  prefaces  to 


ni.]  CHARACTERISTICS  OF  CHAUCER.  179 

their  fictions  or  in  r^wa^z-confidential  comments  upon  them, 
of  the  intimacy  in  which  they  have  lived  with  the  offspring 
of  their  own  brain,  to  them  far  from  shadowy  being>\ 
But  only  the  naivete  of  Chaucer's  literary  age,  together 
with  the  vivacity  of  his  manner  of  thought  and  writing, 
could  place  him  in  so  close  a  personal  relation  towards  the 
personages  and  the  incidents  of  his  poems.  He  is  over- 
come by  "  pity  and  ruth "  as  he  reads  of  suffering,  and 
his  eyes  "  wax  foul  and  sore  "  as  he  prepares  to  tell  of  its 
infliction.  He  compassionates  "  love's  servants  "  as  if  he 
were  their  own  "brother  dear;"  and  into  his  adaptation 
of  the  eventful  story  of  Constance  (the  Man  of  Law^s 
Tale)  he  introduces  apostrophe  upon  apostrophe,  to  the 
defenceless  condition  of  his  heroine — to  her  relentless  en- 
emy the  Sultana,  and  to  Satan,  who  ever  makes  his  instru- 
ment of  women  "when  he  will  beguile" — to  the  drunken 
messenger  who  allowed  the  letter  carried  by  him  to  be 
stolen  from  him — and  to  the  treacherous  Queen -mother 
who  caused  them  to  be  stolen.  Indeed,  in  addressing  the 
last-named  personage,  the  poet  seems  to  lose  all  control 
over  himself. 

"  0  Domegild,  I  have  do  English  digne 
Unto  thy  malice  and  thy  tyranny  : 
And  therefore  to  the  fiend  I  thee  resign, 
Let  him  at  length  tell  of  thy  treachery, 
Fye,  mannish,  fye  ! — Oh  nay,  by  God,  I  lie ; 
Fye  fiendish  spirit,  for  I  dare  well  tell, 
Though  thou  here  walk,  thy  spirit  is  in  hell." 

At  the  opening  of  the  Legend  of  Ariadne  he  bids  Minos 
redden  with  shame ;  and  towards  its  close,  when  narrating 
how  Theseus  sailed  away,  leaving  his  true-love  behind,  he 
expresses  a  hope  that  the  wind  may  drive  the  traitor  "  a 
twenty  devil  way."     Nor  does  this  vivacity  find  a  less 


180  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

amusing  expression  in  so  trifling  a  touch  as  that  in  the 
Clerh's  Tale,  where  the  domestic  sent  to  deprive  Griseldis 
of  her  boy  becomes,  eo  ipso  as  it  were,  "  this  ugly  sergeant." 
Closely  allied  to  Chaucer's  liveliness  and  gaiety  of  dis- 
position, and  in  part  springing  from  them,  are  his  keen 
sense  of  the  ridiculous  and  the  power  of  satire  which  he 
has  at  his  command.  His  humour  has  many  varieties, 
ranging  from  the  refined  and  half-melancholy  irony  of  the 
House  of  Fame  to  the  ready  wit  of  the  sagacious  uncle  of 
Cressid,  the  burlesque  fun  of  the  inimitable  Nun's  Priesfs 
Tale,  and  the  very  gross  salt  of  the  Reeve,  the  Miller,  and 
one  or  two  others.  The  springs  of  humour  often  capri- 
ciously refuse  to  allow  themselves  to  be  discovered  ;  nor 
is  the  satire  of  which  the  direct  intention  is  transparent 
invariably  the  most  effective  species  of  satire.  Concern- 
ing, however,  Chaucer's  use  of  the  power  which  he  in  so 
large  a  measure  possessed,  viz.,  that  of  covering  with  ridi- 
cule the  palpable  vices  or  weaknesses  of  the  classes  or 
kinds  of  men  represented  by  some  of  his  character-types, 
one  assertion  may  be  made  with  tolerable  safety.  What- 
ever may  have  been  the  first  stimulus  and  the  ultimate  scope 
of  the  wit  and  humour  which  he  here  expended,  they  are 
not  to  be  explained  as  moral  indignation  in  disguise.  And 
in  truth  Chaucer's  merriment  flows  spontaneously  from  a 
source  very  near  the  surface ;  he  is  so  extremely  diverting, 
because  he  is  so  extremely  diverted  himself. 

Herein,  too,  lies  the  harmlessness  of  Chaucer's  fun.  Its 
harmlessness,  to  wit,  for  those  who  are  able  to  read  him 
in  something  like  the  spirit  in  which  he  wrote — never  a 
very  easy  achievement  with  regard  to  any  author,  and  one 
which  the  beginner  and  the  young  had  better  be  advised 
to  abstain  from  attempting  with  Chaucer  in  the  overflow 
of  his  more  or  less  unrestrained  moods.     At  all  events, 


III.]  CHARACTERISTICS  OF  CHAUCER.  181 

the  excuse  of  gaiety  of  heart — the  plea  of  that  vieil  esprit 
Gaulois  which  is  so  often,  and  very  rarely  without  need, 
invoked  in  an  exculpatory  capacity  by  modern  French  crit- 
icism— is  the  best  defence  ever  made  for  Chaucer's  laugh- 
able irregularities,  either  by  his  apologists  or  by  himself. 
"  Men  should  not,"  he  says,  and  says  very  truly,  "  make 
earnest  of  game."  But  when  he  audaciously  defends  him- 
self against  the  charge  of  impropriety  by  declaring  that  he 
must  tell  stories  in  character,  and  coolly  requests  any  per- 
son who  may  find  anything  in  one  of  his  tales  objection- 
able to  turn  to  another : — 

"  For  he  shall  find  enough,  both  great  and  small, 
Of  storial  thing  that  toucheth  gentleness, 
Likewise  morality  and  holiness ; 
Blame  ye  not  me,  if  ye  should  choose  amiss — " 

we  are  constrained  to  shake  our  heads  at  the  transparent 
sophistry  of  the  plea,  which  requires  no  exposure.  For 
Chaucer  knew  very  well  how  to  give  life  and  colour  to  his 
page  w^ithout  recklessly  disregarding  bounds  the  neglect 
of  which  was  even  in  his  day  offensive  to  many  besides 
the  ^'' 2)recious  folk"  of  whom  he  half  derisively  pretends 
to  stand  in  awe.  In  one  instance  he  defeated  his  own 
purpose ;  for  the  so-called  Cook^s  Tale  of  Gamelyn  was 
substituted  by  some  earlier  editor  for  the  original  Coolers 
Tale,  which  has  thus  in  its  completed  form  become  a  rar- 
ity removed  beyond  the  reach  of  even  the  most  ardent  of 
curiosity  hunters.  Fortunately,  however,  Chaucer  spoke 
the  truth  when  he  said  that  from  this  point  of  view  he 
had  written  very  differently  at  different  times ;  no  whiter 
pages  remain  than  many  of  his. 

But  the  realism  of  Chaucer  is  something  more  than  ex- 
uberant love  of  fun  and  light-hearted  gaiety.  He  is  the 
first  great  painter  of  character,  because  he  is  the  first  great 


182  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

observer  of  it  among  modern  European  writers.  His  pow- 
er of  comic  observation  need  not  be  dwelt  upon  again, 
after  the  illustrations  of  it  which  have  been  incidentally- 
furnished  in  these  pages.  More  especially  with  regard  to 
the  manners  and  ways  of  women,  which  often,  while  seem- 
ing so  natural  to  women  themselves,  appear  so  odd  to 
male  observers,  Chaucer's  eye  was  ever  on  the  alert.  But 
his  works  likewise  contain  passages  displaying  a  penetrat- 
ing insight  into  the  minds  of  men,  as  well  as  a  keen  eye 
for  their  manners,  together  with  a  power  of  generalising, 
which,  when  kept  within  due  bounds,  lies  at  the  root  of  the 
wise  knowledo'e  of  humankind  so  admirable  to  us  in  our 
great  essayists,  from  Bacon  to  Addison  and  his  modem 
successors.  How  truly,  for  instance,  in  Troilus  and  Ores- 
sidj  Chaucer  observes  on  the  enthusiastic  belief  of  con- 
verts, the  "  strongest-faithed  "  of  men,  as  he  understands  ! 
And  how  fine  is  the  saying  as  to  the  suspiciousness  char- 
acteristic of  lewd  {i.  e.,  ignorant)  people,  that  to  things 
which  are  made  more  subtly 

"  Than  they  can  in  their  lewdness  comprehend," 

they  gladly  give  the  worst  interpretation  which  suggest$ 
itself!  How  appositely  the  Canon's  Yeoman  describes 
the  arrogance  of  those  who  are  too  clever  by  half ; '"  when 
a  man  has  an  over -great  wit,"  he  says,  "it  very  often 
chances  to  him  to  misuse  it !"  And  with  how  ripe  a  wis- 
dom, combined  with  ethics  of  true  gentleness,  the  honest 
Franklin,  at  the  opening  of  his  Tale,  discourses  on  the 
uses  and  the  beauty  of  long-suffering : — 

*'  Fot-  one  thing,  sires,  safely  dare  I  say, 
That  friends  the  one  the  other  must  obey, 
K  they  will  longii  holde  company. 
Love  will  not  be  constrain'd  by  mastery. 


III.]  CHARACTERISTICS  OF  CHAUCER.  183 

When  mastery  comes,  the  god  of  love  anon 

Beateth  his  wings — and,  farewell !  he  is  gone. 

Love  is  a  thing  as  any  spirit  free. 

Women  desire,  by  nature,  liberty. 

And  not  to  be  constrained  as  a  thrall; 

And  so  do  men,  if  I  the  truth  say  shall. 

Look,  who  that  is  most  patient  in  love, 

He  is  at  his  advantage  all  above. 

A  virtue  high  is  patience,  certain. 

Because  it  vanquisheth,  as  clerks  explain, 

Things  to  which  rigour  never  could  attain. 

For  every  word  men  should  not  chide  and  plain ; 

Learn  ye  to  suffer,  or  else,  so  may  I  go, 

Ye  shall  it  learn,  whether  ye  will  or  no. 

For  in  this  world  certain  no  wight  there  is 

Who  neither  doth  nor  saith  some  time  amiss. 

Sickness  or  ire,  or  constellation. 

Wine,  woe,  or  changing  of  complexion, 

Causeth  full  oft  to  do  amiss  or  speak. 

For  every  wrong  men  may  not  vengeance  wreak : 

After  a  time  there  must  be  temperance 

With  every  wight  that  knows  self-governance." 

It  was  by  virtue  of  his  power  of  observing  and  drawing 
character,  above  all,  that  Chaucer  became  the  true  prede- 
cessor of  two  several  growths  in  our  literature,  in  both  of 
which  characterisation  forms  a  most  important  element — 
it  might  perhaps  be  truly  said,  the  element  which  surpasses 
all  others  in  importance.  From  this  point  of  view  the 
dramatic  poets  of  the  Elizabethan  age  remain  unequalled 
by  any  other  school  or  group  of  dramatists,  and  the  Eng- 
lish novelists  of  the  eighteenth  and  nineteenth  centuries 
by  the  representatives  of  any  other  development  of  prose- 
fiction.  In  the  art  of  construction,  in  the  invention  and 
the  arrangement  of  incident,  these  dramatists  and  novelists 
may  have  been  left  behind  by  others;  in  the  creation  of 


184  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

character  tliey  are,  on  the  whole,  without  rivals  in  their  re- 
spective branches  of  literature.  To  the  earlier  at  least  of 
these  growths  Chaucer  may  be  said  to  have  pointed  the 
way.  His  personages — more  especially,  of  course,  as  has 
been  seen,  those  who  are  assembled  together  in  the  Pro- 
logue to  the  Canterbury  Tales — are  not  mere  phantasms  of 
the  brain,  or  even  mere  actual  possibilities,  but  real  human 
beings,  and  types  true  to  the  likeness  of  whole  classes  of 
men  and  women,  or  to  the  mould  in  which  all  human  nat- 
ure is  cast.  This  is,  upon  the  whole,  the  most  wonderful, 
as  it  is  perhaps  the  most  generally  recognised,  of  Chaucer's 
gifts.  It  would  not  of  itself  have  sufficed  to  make  him  a 
great  dramatist,  had  the  drama  stood  ready  for  him  as  a 
literary  form  into  which  to  pour  the  inspirations  of  his 
genius,  as  it  afterwards  stood  ready  for  our  great  Eliza- 
bethans. But  to  it  were  added  in  him  that  perception  of 
a  strong  dramatic  situation,  and  that  power  of  finding  the 
right  words  for  it,  which  have  determined  the  success  of 
many  plays,  and  the  absence  of  which  materially  detracts 
from  the  completeness  of  the  effect  of  others,  high  as  their 
merits  may  be  in  other  respects.  How  thrilling,  for  in- 
stance, is  that  rapid  passage  across  the  stage,  as  one  might 
almost  call  it,  of  the  unhappy  Dorigen  in  the  FranhlirHs 
Tale  !  The  antecedents  of  the  situation,  to  be  sure,  are, 
as  has  been  elsewhere  suggested,  absurd  enough  ;  but  who 
can  fail  to  feel  that  spasm  of  anxious  sympathy  with  which 
a  powerful  dramatic  situation  in  itself  affects  us,  when  the 
wife,  whom  for  truth's  sake  her  husband  has  bidden  be 
untrue  to  him,  goes  forth  on  her  unholy  errand  of  duty? 
"  Whither  so  fast  V  asks  the  lover : 

"  And  she  made  answer,  half  as  she  were  mad : 
'  Unto  the  garden,  as  my  husband  bade, 
My  promise  for  to  keep,  alas !  alas  !' " 


III.]       .  CHARACTERISTICS  OF  CHAUCER.  185 

Nor,  as  the  abbreviated  prose  version  of  tlie  Pardoner's 
Tale  given  above  will  suffice  to  sbow,  was  Chaucer  deficient 
in  the  art  of  dramatically  arranging  a  story;  while  he  is 
not  excelled  by  any  of  our  non-dramatic  poets  in  the  spirit 
and  movement  of  his  dialogue.  The  Book  of  the  Duchess 
and  the  House  of  Fame^  but  more  especially  Troilus  and 
Cressid  and  the  connecting  passages  between  some  of  the 
Canterbury  Tales,  may  be  referred  to  in  various  illustration 
of  this. 

The  vividness  of  his  imagination,  which  conjures  up,  so 
to  speak,  the  very  personality  of  his  characters  before  him, 
and  the  contagious  force  of  his  pathos,  which  is  as  true  and 
as  spontaneous  as  his  humour,  complete  in  him  the  bom 
dramatist.  We  can  see  Constance  as  with  our  own  eyes, 
in  the  agony  of  her  peril : — 

*'  Have  ye  not  seen  some  time  a  pallid  face 
Among  a  press,  of  him  that  hath  been  led 
Towards  his  death,  where  him  awaits  no  grace, 
And  such  a  colour  in  his  face  hath  had, 
Men  mighte  know  his  face  was  so  bested 
'Mong  all  the  other  faces  in  that  rout  ? 
So  stands  Constance,  and  looketh  her  about.'* 

And  perhaps  there  is  no  better  way  of  studying  the  gen- 
eral character  of  Chaucer's  pathos  than  a  comparison  of 
the  Monk'^s  Tale  from  which  this  passage  is  taken,  and  the 
Clerk'' s  Tale,  with  their  original?.  In  the  former,  for  in- 
stance, the  prayer  of  Constance,  when  condemned  through 
Domegild's  guilt  to  be  cast  adrift  once  more  on  the  waters, 
her  piteous  words  and  tenderness  to  her  little  child  as  it 
lies  weeping  in  her  arm,  and  her  touching  leave-taking 
from  the  land  of  the  husband  who  has  condemned  her — 
all  these  are  Chaucer's  own.  So  also  are  parts  of  one  of 
the  most  affecting  passages  in  the  Clerk'' s  Tale — Griseldis* 
N     9  13 


186  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

farewell  to  her  daughter.  But  it  is  as  unnecessary  to  lay 
a  finger  upon  lines  and  passages  illustrating  Chaucer's  pa- 
thos as  upon  others  illustrating  his  humour. 

Thus,  then,  Chaucer  was  a  born  dramatist ;  but  fate  will- 
ed it,  that  the  branch  of  our  literature  which  might  prob- 
ably have  of  all  been  the  best  suited  to  his  genius  was  not 
to  spring  into  life  till  he  and  several  generations  after  him 
had  passed  away.  To  be  sure,  during  the  fourteenth  cen- 
tury the  so-called  miracle  -  plays  flourished  abundantly  in 
England,  and  were,  as  there  is  every  reason  to  believe,  al- 
ready largely  performed  by  the  trading-companies  of  Lon- 
don and  the  towns.  The  allusions  in  Chaucer  to  these  be- 
ginnings of  our  English  drama  are,  however,  renaarkably 
scanty.  The  Wife  of  Bath  mentions  plays  of  miracles 
among  the  other  occasions  of  religious  sensation  haunted 
by  her,  clad  in  her  gay  scarlet  gown — including  vigils,  pro- 
cessions, preachings,  pilgrimages,  and  marriages.  And  the 
jolly  parish-clerk  of  the  Miller's  Tale,  we  are  informed,  at 
times,  in  order  to  show  his  lightness  and  his  skill,  played 
"  Herod  on  a  scaffold  high  " — thus,  by-the-bye,  emulating 
the  parish  clerks  of  London,  who  are  known  to  have  been 
among  the  performers  of  miracles  in  the  Middle  Ages. 
The  allusion  to  Pilate's  voice  in  the  Miller's  Prologue,  and 
that  in  the  Tale  to 

"  The  sorrow  of  Noah  with  his  fellowship 
That  he  had  ere  he  got  his  wife  to  ship,'* 

seem  likewise  dramatic  reminiscences ;  and  the  occurrence 
of  these  three  allusions  in  a  single  Tale  and  its  Prologue 
would  incline  one  to  think  that  Chaucer  had  recently 
amused  himself  at  one  of  these  performances.  But  plays 
are  not  mentioned  among  the  entertainments  enumerated 
at  the  opening  of  the  Pardoner's  Tale;  and  it  would  in 


ra.]  CHARACTERISTICS  OF  CHAUCER.  187 

any  case  have  been  unlikely  that  Chaucer  should  have 
paid  much  attention  to  diversions  which  were  long  chiefly 
"visited"  by  the  classes  with  which  he  could  have  no 
personal  connexion,  and  even  at  a  much  later  date  were 
dissociated  in  men's  minds  from  poetry  and  literature. 
Had  he  ever  written  anything  remotely  partaking  of  the 
nature  of  a  dramatic  piece,  it  could  at  the  most  have  been 
the  words  of  the  songs  in  some  congratulatory  royal  pa- 
geant such  as  Lydgate  probably  wrote  on  the  return  of 
Henry  V.  after  Agincourt ;  though  there  is  not  the  least 
reason  for  supposing  Chaucer  to  have  taken  so  much  in- 
terest in  the  "  ridings  "  through  the  City  which  occupied 
many  a  morning  of  the  idle  apprentice  of  the  Cook^s  Tale^ 
Perky n  Revellour.  It  is,  perhaps,  more  surprising  to  find 
Chaucer,  who  was  a  reader  of  several  Latin  poets,  and  who 
had  heard  of  more,  both  Latin  and  Greek,  show  no  knowl- 
edge whatever  of  the  ancient  classical  drama,  with  which 
he  may  accordingly  be  fairly  concluded  to  have  been  whol- 
ly unacquainted. 

To  one  further  aspect  of  Chaucer's  realism  as  a  poet 
reference  has  already  been  made;  but  a  final  mention  of 
it  may  most  appropriately  conclude  this  sketch  of  his  po- 
etical characteristics.  His  descriptions  of  nature  are  as 
true  as  his  sketches  of  human  character;  and  incidental 
touches  in  him  reveal  his  love  of  the  one  as  unmistakeably 
as  his  unflagging  interest  in  the  study  of  the  other.  Even 
these  May-morning  exordia,  in  which  he  was  but  following 
a  fashion — faithfully  observed  both  by  the  French  trouveres 
and  by  the  English  romances  translated  from  their  pro- 
ductions, and  not  forgotten  by  the  author  of  the  earlier 
part  of  the  Roman  de  la  Rose  —  always  come  from  his 
hands  with  the  freshness  of  natural  truth.  They  cannot 
be  called  original  in  conception,  and  it  would  be  diflScult 


188  CHAUCER.  [chap.  hi. 

to  point  out  in  them  anything  strikingly  original  in  exe- 
cution ;  yet  they  cannot  be  included  among  those  matter- 
of-course  notices  of  morning  and  evening,  sunrise  and  sun- 
set, to  which  so  many  poets  have  accustomed  us  since  (be 
it  said  with  reverence)  Homer  himself.  In  Chaucer  these 
passages  make  his  page  "  as  fresh  as  is  the  month  of  May." 
When  he  went  forth  on  these  April  and  May  mornings,  it 
was  not  solely  with  the  intent  of  composing  a  roundelay  or 
a  marguerite  ;  but  we  may  be  well  assured  he  allowed  the 
song  of  the  little  birds,  the  perfume  of  the  flowers,  and  the 
fresh  verdure  of  the  English  landscape,  to  sink  into  his 
very  soul.  For  nowhere  does  he  seem,  and  nowhere  could 
he  have  been,  more  open  to  the  influence  which  he  received 
into  himself,  and  which  in  his  turn  he  exercised,  and  exer- 
cises upon  others,  than  when  he  was  in  fresh  contact  with 
nature.  In  this  influence  lies  the  secret  of  his  genius ;  in 
bis  poetry  there  is  life. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

EPILOGUE. 

The  legacy  which  Chaucer  left  to  our  literature  was  to 
fructify  in  the  hands  of  a  long  succession  of  heirs ;  and  it 
may  be  said,  with  little  fear  of  contradiction,  that  at  no 
time  has  his  fame  been  fresher  and  his  influence  upon  our 
poets — and  upon  our  painters  as  well  as  our  poets — more 
perceptible  than  at  the  present  day.  When  Gower  first 
put  forth  his  Confessio  Amantis^  we  may  assume  that  Chau- 
cer's poetical  labours,  of  the  fame  of  which  his  brother- 
poet  declared  the  land  to  be  full,  had  not  yet  been  crown- 
ed by  his  last  and  greatest  work.  As  a  poet,  therefore, 
Gower  in  one  sense  owes  less  to  Chaucer  than  did  many 
of  their  successors ;  though,  on  the  other  hand,  it  may 
be  said  with  truth  that  to  Chaucer  is  due  the  fact  that 
Gower  (whose  earlier  productions  were  in  French  and  in 
Latin)  ever  became  a  poet  at  all.  The  Confessio  Amantis 
is  no  book  for  all  times  like  the  Canterbury/  Tales;  but 
the  conjoined  names  of  Chaucer  and  Gower  added  strength 
to  one  another  in  the  eyes  of  the  generations  ensuing,  lit- 
tle anxious  as  these  generations  were  to  distinguish  which 
of  the  pair  was  really  the  first  to  "garnish  our  English 
rude  "  with  the  flowers  of  a  new  poetic  diction  and  art  of 
verse. 

The  Lancaster  period  of  our  history  had  its  days  of 


190  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

national  glory  as  well  as  of  national  humiliation,  and  in- 
disputably, as   a  whole,  advanced  the  growth  of  the  na- 
tion towards  political  manhood.      But  it  brought  with  it 
no  golden  summer  to  fulfil  the  promises  of  the  spring- 
tide of  our  modern  poetical  literature.      The  two  poets 
whose  names  stand  forth  frbm  the  barren  after-season  of 
the  earlier  half  of   the  fifteenth   century,  were,  both  of 
them,  according  to  their  own  profession,  disciples  of  Chau- 
cer.    In  truth,  however,  Occleve,  the  only  nameworthy  po- 
etical writer  of  the  reign  of  Henry  IV.,  seems  to  have  been 
less  akin  as  an  author  to  Chaucer  than  to  Gower,  while  his 
principal  poem  manifestly  was,  in  an  even  greater  degree 
than  the  Confessio  Amantis,  a  severely  learned  or,  as  its 
author  terms  it,  unbuxom  book.      Lydgate,  on  the  other 
hand,  the  famous  monk  of  Bury,  has  in  him  something  of 
the  spirit  as  well  as  of  the  manner  of  Chaucer,  under  whose 
advice  he  is  said  to  have  composed  one  of  his  principal  po- 
ems.   Though  a  monk,  he  was  no  stay-at-home  or  do-noth- 
ing ;  like  him  of  the  Canterbury  Tales^  we  may  suppose 
Lydgate  to  have  scorned  the  maxim  that  a  monk  out  of 
his  cloister  is  like  a  fish  out  of  water ;  and  doubtless  many 
days  which  he  could  spare  from  the  instruction  of  youth 
at  St.  Edmund's  Bury  were  spent  about  the  London  streets, 
of  the  sights  and  sounds  of  which  he  has  left  us  so  viva- 
cious a  record — a  kind  of  farcical  supplement  to  the  Pro- 
logue of  the  Canterbury  Tales.     His  literary  career,  part 
of  which  certainly  belongs  to  the  reign  of  Henry  V.,  has 
some  resemblance  to  Chaucer's,  though  it  is  less  regular 
and  less  consistent  with  itself ;  and  several  of  his  poems 
bear  more  or  less  distinct  traces  of  Chaucer's  influence. 
The  Troy -book  is  not  founded  on  Troilus  and  Cressidy 
though  it  is  derived  from  the  sources  which  had  fed  the 
original  of  Chaucer's  poem ;  but  the  Temple  of  Glass  seems 


IV.]  .  EPILOGUE.  191 

to  have  been  an  imitation  of  the  House  of  Fame  ;  and  the 
Story  of  Thebes  is  actually  introduced  by  its  author  as 
an  additional  Canterbury  Tale,  and  challenges  comparison 
with  the  rest  of  the  series  into  which  it  asks  admittance. 
Both  Occleve  and  Lydgate  enjoyed  the  patronage  of  a 
prince  of  genius  descended  from  the  House,  with  whose 
founder  Chaucer  was  so  closely  connected  —  Humphrey, 
Duke  of  Gloucester.  Meanwhile,  the  sovereign  of  a  neigh- 
bouring kingdom  was  in  all  probability  himself  the  agent 
who  established  the  influence  of  Chaucer  as  predominant 
in  the  literature  of  his  native  land.  The  long  though  hon- 
ourable captivity  in  England  of  King  James  I.  of  Scotland 
— the  best  poet  among  kings  and  the  best  king  among 
poets,  as,  he  has  been  antithetically  called  —  was  consoled 
by  the  study  of  the  "hymns"  of  his  "  dear  masters,  Chau- 
cer and  Gower,"  for  the  happiness  of  whose  souls  he  prays 
at  the  close  of  his  poem,  The  King's  Quair.  That  most 
charming  of  love  -  allegories,  in  which  the  Scottish  king 
sings  the  story  of  his  captivity  and  of  his  deliverance  by 
the  sweet  messenger  of  love,  not  only  closely  imitates 
Chaucer  in  detail,  more  especially  at  its  opening,  but  is 
pervaded  by  his  spirit.  Many  subsequent  Scottish  poets 
imitated  Chaucer,  and  some  of  them  loyally  acknowledged 
their  debts  to  him.  Gawin  Douglas  in  his  Palace  of  Hon- 
our, and  Henryson  in  his  Testament  of  Cressid  and  else- 
where, are  followers  of  the  Southern  master.  The  wise  and 
brave  Sir  David  Lyndsay  was  familiar  with  his  writings ; 
and  he  was  not  only  occasionally  imitated,  but  praised  with 
enthusiastic  eloquence  by  William  Dunbar,  "  that  darling 
of  the  Scottish  Muses,"  whose  poetical  merits  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  from  some  points  of  view,  can  hardly  be  said  to 
have  exaggerated,  when  declaring  him  to  have  been  "  justly 
raised  to  a  level  with  Chaucer  by  every  judge  of  poetry, 


192  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

to  whom  his  obsolete  language  has  not  rendered  him  unin- 
telligible." Dunbar  knew  that  this  Scottish  language  was 
but  a  form  of  that  which,  as  he  declared,  Chaucer  had  made 
to  "  surmount  every  terrestrial  tongue,  as  far  as  midnight 
is  surmounted  by  a  May  morning." 

Meanwhile,  in  England,  the  influence  of  Chaucer  contin- 
ued to  live  even  during  the  dreary  interval  which  separates 
from  one  another  two  important  epochs  of  our  literary  his- 
tory. Now,  as  in  the  days  of  the  Norman  kings,  ballads 
orally  transmitted  were  the  people's  poetry;  and  one  of 
these  popular  ballads  carried  the  story  of  Patient  Grissel 
into  regions  where  Chaucer's  name  was  probably  unknown. 
When,  after  the  close  of  the  troubled  season  of  the  Roses, 
our  poetic  literature  showed  the  first  signs  of  a  revival,  they 
consisted  in  a  return  to  the  old  masters  of  the  fourteenth 
century.  The  poetry  of  Hawes,  the  learned  author  of  the 
crabbed  Pastime  of  Pleasure,  exhibits  an  undeniable  con- 
tinuity with  that  of  Chaucer,  Gower,  and  Lydgate,  to  which 
triad  he  devotes  a  chapter  of  panegyric.  Hawes,  however, 
presses  into  the  service  of  his  allegory  not  only  all  the  Virt- 
ues and  all  the  Vices,  whom  from  habit  we  can  tolerate  in 
such  productions,  but  also  Astronomy,  Geometry,  Arithme- 
tic, and  the  rest  of  the  seven  Daughters  of  Doctrine,  whom 
we  cannot,  and  is  altogether  inferior  to  the  least  of  his 
models.  It  is,  at  the  same  time,  to  his  credit  that  he  seems 
painfully  aware  of  his  inability  to  cope  with  either  Chau- 
cer or  Lydgate  as  to  vigour  of  invention.  There  is,  in 
truth,  more  of  the  dramatic  spirit  of  Chaucer  in  Barklay's 
Ship  of  Fools,  which,  though  essentially  a  translation, 
achieved  in  England  the  popularity  of  an  original  work ; 
for  this  poem,  like  the  Canterbury/  Tales,  introduces  into  f 
its  admirable  framework  a  variety  of  lifelike  sketches  of 
character  and  manners — it  has  in  it  that  dramatic  element 


IV.]  EPILOGUE.  193 

which  is  so  Chaucerian  a  characteristic.     But  the  aim  of 
its  author  was  didactic,  which  Chaucer's  had  never  been. 

When  with  the  poems  of  Surrey  and  Wyatt,  and  with 
the  first  attempts  in  the  direction  of  the  regular  drama, 
the  opening  of  the  second  great  age  in  our  litecature  ap- 
proached, and  when,  about  half  a  century  afterwards,  that 
age  actually  opened  with  an  unequalled  burst  of  varied 
productivity,  it  would  seem  as  if  Chaucer's  influence  might 
naturally  enough  have  passed  away,  or  at  least  become  ob- 
scured. Such  was  not,  however  the  case,  and  Chaucer  sur- 
vived into  the  age  of  the  English  Renascence  as  an  estab- 
lished English  classic,  in  which  capacity  Caxton  had  hon- 
oured him  by  twice  issuing  an  edition  of  his  works  from 
the  Westminster  printing-press.  Henry  VIII.'s  favourite 
— the  reckless  but  pithy  satirist,  Skelton — was  alive  to  the 
merits  of  his  great  predecessor ;  and  Skelton's  patron, 
William  Thynne,  a  royal  official,  busied  himself  with  edit- 
ing Chaucer's  works.  The  loyal  servant  of  Queen  Mary, 
the  wise  and  witty  John  Heywood,  from  whose  Interludes 
the  step  is  so  short  to  the  first  regular  English  comedy,  in 
one  of  these  pieces  freely  plagiarised  a  passage  in  the  Can- 
terbury Tales.  Tottel,  the  printer  of  the  favourite  poetic 
Miscellany  published  shortly  before  Queen  Elizabeth's  ac- 
cession, included  in  his  collection  the  beautiful  lines,  cited 
above,  called  Good  Counsel  of  Chaucer.  And  when  at  last 
the  Elizabethan  era  properly  so-called  began,  the  proof  was 
speedily  given  that  geniuses  worthy  of  holding  fellowship 
with  Chaucer  had  assimilated  into  their  own  literary  growth 
what  was  congruous  to  it  in  his,  just  as  he  had  assimilated 
to  himself — not  always  improving,  but  hardly  ever  merely 
borrowing  or  taking  over — much  that  he  had  found  in  the 
French  trouveres,  and  in  Italian  poetry  and  prose.  The  first 
work  which  can  be  included  in  the  great  period  of  Eliza- 
9* 


194  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

bethan  literature  is  the  Shepherd's  Calendar,  where  Spen- 
ser  is  still  in  a  partly  imitative  stage ;  and  it  is  Chaucer 
whom  he  imitates  and  extols  in  his  poem,  and  whom  his 
alter  ego,  the  mysterious  "  E.  ^.,"  extols  in  preface  and 
notes.  The  longest  of  the  passages  in  which  reference  is 
made  by  Spenser  to  Chaucer,  under  the  pseudonym  of 
Tityrus,  is  more  especially  noteworthy,  both  as  showing 
the  veneration  of  the  younger  for  the  older  poet,  and  as 
testifying  to  the  growing  popularity  of  Chaucer  at  the 
time  when  Spenser  wrote. 

The  same  great  poet's  debt  to  his  revered  predecessor 
in  the  Daphna'ida  has  been  already  mentioned.  The  Fai- 
ry Queen  is  the  masterpiece  of  an  original  mind,  and  its 
supreme  poetic  quality  is  a  lofty  magnificence  upon  the 
-whole  foreign  to  Chaucer's  genius;  but  Spenser  owed 
something  more  than  his  archaic  forms  to  "  Tityrus,"  with 
whose  style  he  had  erst  disclaimed  all  ambition  to  match 
his  pastoral  pipe.  In  a  well-known  passage  of  his  great 
epos  he  declares  that  it  is  through  sweet  infusion  of  the 
older  poet's  own  spirit  that  he,  the  younger,  follows  the 
footing  of  his  feet,  in  order  so  the  rather  to  meet  with  his 
meaning.  It  was  this,  the  romantic  spirit  proper,  which 
Spenser  sought  to  catch  from  Chaucer,  but  which,  Hke  all 
those  who  consciously  seek  after  it,  he  transmuted  into  a 
new  quality  and  a  new  power.  With  Spenser  the  change 
was  into  something  mightier  and  loftier.  He  would,  we 
cannot  doubt,  readily  have  echoed  the  judgment  of  his 
friend  and  brother -poet  concerning  Chaucer.  "I  know, 
not,"  writes  Sir  Philip  Sidney, "  whether  to  marvel  more, 
either  that  he  in  that  misty  time  could  see  so  clearly,  or 
that  we,  in  this  clear  age,  walk  so  stumblingly  after  him. 
Yet  had  he,"  adds  Sidney,  with  the  generosity  of  a  true 
critic,  who  is  not  lost  in  wonder  at  his  own  cleverness  in 


IV.]  EPILOGUE.  195 

discovering  defects,  "  great  wants,  fit  to  be  forgiven  in  so 
reverent  an  antiquity."  And  yet  a  third  Elizabethan,  Mi- 
chael Drayton,  pure  of  tone  and  high  of  purpose,  joins  his 
voice  to  those  of  Spenser  and  Sidney,  hailing  in  the  "  no- 
ble Chaucer" 

"...  The  first  of  those  that  ever  brake 

Into  the  Muses'  treasure  and  first  spake 

In  weighty  numbers," 

and  placing  Gower,  with  a  degree  of  judgment  not  reach- 
ed by  his  and  Chaucer's  immediate  successors,  in  his 
proper  relation  of  poetic  rank  to  his  younger  but  greater 
contemporary. 

To  these  names  should  be  added  that  of  George  Put- 
tenhara — if  he  was  indeed  the  author  of  the  grave  and 
elaborate  treatise,  dedicated  to  Lord  Burghley,  on  The  Art 
of  English  Poesy.  In  this  work  mention  is  repeatedly 
made  of  Chaucer,  "  father  of  our  English  poets ;"  and  his 
learning,  and  "  the  natural  of  his  pleasant  wit,"  are  alike 
judiciously  commended.  One  of  Puttenham's  best  quali- 
ties as  a  critic  is  that  he  never  speaks  without  his  book ; 
and  he  comes  very  near  to  discovering  Chaucer's  greatest 
gift  when  noticing  his  excellence  in  prosopographia  —  a 
term  which  to  Chaucer  would,  perhaps,  have  seemed  to  re- 
quire translation.  At  the  obsoleteness  of  Chaucer's  own 
diction  this  critic,  who  writes  entirely  "  for  the  better 
brought-up  sort,"  is  obliged  to  shake  his  learned  head. 

Enough  has  been  said  in  the  preceding  pages  to  support 
the  opinion  that  among  the  wants  which  fell  to  the  lot  of 
Chaucer  as  a  poet,  perhaps  the  greatest  (though  Sidney 
would  never  have  allowed  this)  was  the  want  of  poetic 
form  most  in  harmony  with  his  most  characteristic  gifts. 
The  influence  of  Chaucer  upon  the  dramatists  of  the  Eliza- 
bethan age  was  probably  rather  indirect  and  general  than 


196  CHAUCER.  [chap. 

direct  and  personal ;  but  indications  or  illustrations  of  it 
may  be  traced  in  a  considerable  number  of  these  writers, 
including,  perhaps,  among  the  earliest  Richard  Edwards 
as  the  author  of  a  non-extant  tragedy,  Palamon  and  Ar- 
cite,  and  among  the  latest  the  author — or  authors — of  The 
Two  Nohle  Kinsmen.  Besides  Fletcher  and  Shakspeare, 
Greene,  Nash,  and  Middleton,  and  more  especially  Jonson 
(as  both  poet  and  grammarian),  were  acquainted  with 
Chaucer's  writings;  so  that  it  is  perhaps  rather  a  proof 
of  the  widespread  popularity  of  the  Canterbury  Tales 
than  the  reverse  that  they  were  not  largely  resorted  to 
for  materials  by  the  Elizabethan  and  Jacobean  dramatists. 
Under  Charles  I.  Troilus  and  Cressid  found  a  translator 
in  Sir  Francis  Kynaston,  whom  Cartwright  congratulated 
on  having  made  it  possible  "that  we  read  Chaucer  now 
without  a  dictionary."  A  personage,  however,  in  Cart- 
wright's  best  known  play,  the  Antiquary  Moth,  prefers  to 
talk  on  his  own  account  "genuine"  Chaucerian  English. 

To  pursue  the  further  traces  of  the  influence  of  Chau- 
cer through  such  a  literary  aftergrowth  as  the  younger 
Fletchers,  into  the  early  poems  of  Milton,  would  be  be- 
yond the  purpose  of  the  present  essay.  In  the  treasure- 
house  of  that  great  poet's  mind  were  gathered  memories 
and  associations  innumerable,  though  the  sublimest  flights 
of  his  genius  soared  aloft  into  regions  whither  the  im- 
agination of  none  of  our  earlier  poets  had  preceded 
them.  On  the  other  hand,  the  days  have  passed  for 
attention  to  be  spared  for  the  treatment  experienced  by 
Chaucer  in  the  Augustan  age,  to  which  he  was  a  barba- 
rian only  to  be  tolerated  if  put  into  the  court-dress  of  the 
final  period  of  civilisation.  Still,  even  thus,  he  was  not 
left  altogether  unread;  nor  was  he  in  all  cases  adapted 
without  a  certain  measure  of  success.     The  irrepressible 


IV.]  EPILOGUE,  19  Y 

vigour,  and  the  frequent  felicity,  of  Dryden's  Fables  con- 
trast advantageously  with  the  tame  evenness  of  the  Tem- 
ple of  Fame^  an  early  effort  by  Pope,  who  had  wit  enough 
to  imitate  in  a  juvenile  parody  some  of  the  grossest  pecu- 
liarities of  Chaucer's  manner,  but  who  would  have  been 
quite  ashamed  to  reproduce  him  in  a  serious  literary  per- 
formance, without  the  inevitable  polish  and  cadence  of  his 
own  style  of  verse.  Later  modernisations — even  of  those 
which  a  band  of  poets  in  some  instances  singularly  quali- 
fied for  the  task  put  forth  in  a  collection  published  in 
the  year  1841,  and  which,  on  the  part  of  some  of  them 
at  least,  was  the  result  of  conscientious  endeavour — it  is 
needless  to  characterise  here.  Slight  incidental  use  has 
been  made  of  some  of  these  in  this  essay,  the  author  of 
which  would  gladly  have  abstained  from  printing  a  single 
modernised  phrase  or  word — most  of  all,  any  which  he  has 
himself  been  guilty  of  re-casting.  The  time  cannot  be  far 
distant  when  even  the  least  unsuccessful  of  such  attempts 
will  no  longer  be  accepted,  because  no  such  attempts  what- 
ever will  be  any  longer  required.  No  Englishman  or  Eng- 
lishwoman need  go  through  a  very  long  or  very  laborious 
apprenticeship  in  order  to  become  able  to  read,  understand, 
and  enjoy  what  Chaucer  himself  wrote.  But  if  this  ap- 
prenticeship be  too  hard,  then  some  sort  of  makeshift 
must  be  accepted,  or  antiquity  must  remain  the  "  canker- 
worm"  even  of  a  great  national  poet,  as  Spenser  said  it 
had  already  in  his  day  proved  to  be  of  Chaucer. 

Meanwhile,  since  our  poetic  literature  has  long  thrown 
off  the  shackles  which  forced  it  to  adhere  to  one  particu- 
lar group  of  models,  he  is  not  a  true  English  poet  who 
should  remain  uninfluenced  by  any  of  the  really  great 
among  his  predecessors.  If  Chaucer  has  again,  in  a  special 
sense,  become  the  "  master  dear  and  father  reverent "  of 


198  CHAUCER.  [chap.  rv. 

some  of  our  living  poets,  in  a  wider  sense  he  must  hold 
this  relation  to  them  all  and  to  all  their  successors,  so  long 
as  he  continues  to  be  known  and  understood.  As  it  is, 
there  are  few  worthies  of  our  literature  whose  names  seem 
to  awaken  throughout  the  English-speaking  world  a  readi- 
er sentiment  of  familiar  regard;  and  in  New  England, 
where  the  earliest  great  poet  of  Old  England  is  cherished 
not  less  warmly  than  among  ourselves,  a  kindly  cunning 
ha»  thus  limned  his  likeness : — 

"  An  old  man  in  a  lodge  within  a  park ; 
The  chamber  walls  depicted  all  around 
With  portraiture  of  huntsman,  hawk  and  hound, 
And  the  hurt  deer.     He  listeneth  to  the  lark, 
Whose  song  comes  with  the  sunshine  through  the  dark 
Of  painted  glass  in  leaden  lattice  bound  ; 
He  Usteneth  and  he  laugheth  at  the  sound, 
Then  writeth  in  a  book  like  any  clerk. 
He  is  the  poet  of  the  dawn,  who  wrote 
The  Canterbury  Tales,  and  his  old  age 
Made  beautiful  with  song ;  and  as  I  read 
I  hear  the  crowing  cock,  I  hear  the  note 
Of  lark  and  linnet,  and  from  every  page 
Rise  odours  of  ploughed  field  or  flowery  mead." 


GLOSSARY. 


Bencite  =  benedicite. 

Clepe,  call. 

Deem^  judge. 

Despitoics,  angry  to  excess. 

Digftx,,  nt; — disdaiiful. 

Fren^  friar. 

Gentle,  well-born. 

Keep,  care. 

Languor,  grief. 

Meinie,  following,  household. 

Meet,  mate  (?),  measure  (?). 

Overthwart,  across. 

Parage,  rank,  degree. 

Press,  crowd. 


Rede,  advise,  counsel. 

Reeve,  steward,  bailiff. 

Ruth,  pity. 

Scall,  scab. 

Shapely,  fit. 

Sithe,  time. 

Spiced,  nice,  scrupulous. 

Targe,  target,  shield. 

F  prefix  of  past  participle  as  in 

y-bee  =  hee{n). 
While,  time ;  to  quite  his  while,  to 

reward  his  pains. 
Wieldy,  active. 
Wone,  custom,  habit. 


*^*  A  dotted  e  should  always  be  sounded  in  reading. 


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